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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



RHYMES OF A 
DOGGEREL BARD 

1885-1918 



Rhymes of a 
Doggerel Bard 



As They Appeared in 

The Northwestern Miller, 

The Bellman, and 

Elsewhere 



Minneapolis, Minn., U. S. A. 

The Miller Publishing Company 
1921 







Copyright 1921 

by 

The Miller Publishing Company 



NOV 25 192! 
§>C!.A630426 



~*vc / 



1 



PREFACE 



THE other day The Northwestern Miller had a house- 
cleaning, during which a system of indexing and 
reference was established. This necessitated an ex- 
amination of the old files, and in going over them 
attention was called to a department of the paper which 
had been abandoned so many years ago that it had 
been almost forgotten even by him who was responsible 
for it. 

It carried this heading: 




Reading these rhymes revived many amusing memo- 
ries of the time in which they were written, and believing 
that the older readers of The Northwestern Miller would 
be glad to be reminded of that period, while those whose 



PREFACE 

connection with the trade is of more recent date would 
be interested in the lighter side of the milling industry 
as it presented itself thirty or forty years ago, it was 
decided to reprint a characteristic selection from the 
contents of this department. 

"Last Column Lyrics" made their first appearance in 
1885. The Lusty Lyre who wrote them was at that 
time the business manager of The Northwestern Miller, 
having entered its service in that capacity three years 
before with no expectation of ever becoming connected 
with its editorial staff. These contributions were en- 
tirely outside his proper department. He wrote them 
chiefly for his own amusement, as a relief from more 
prosaic duties, and they were tolerated by the editor 
as an innovation which might prove unobjectionable to 
the reader. 

A year or so later, the business manager found him- 
self acting as editor and being obliged to furnish a cer- 
tain amount of prose every week he abandoned his at- 
tempt to supply a column of rhyme and the department 
was discontinued. 

Thereafter The Lusty Lyre was heard from occa- 
sionally when some trade occurrence inspired him, as in 
1905 when the activity of the "crop killers 1 ' gave him 
an inviting theme, and the Ode to Foggy Dew, the Battle 
of the Experts, and the Rhyme of the Ancient Granger 
were printed. In recent years, except at long intervals, 
the Lyre has been mute. 

In the Holiday Number of The Northwestern Miller 
for 1887, in a page, illustrated by Mr. Graves and print- 
ed in blue ink, the alleged poet was shown turning the 
crank of a machine somewhat resembling a roller mill. 
From above spouts led into it; these were labeled ink, 
paper, verbs, adjectives, nouns and pronouns, and the 
device was called the "Patent Milling Poetry Pounder 
and Verse Mixer." The frenzied person shown turning 
the handle of the mill was thus described: 

"This is The Miller's poet. 

He runs our rhyme machine. 
He is our verse compounder, 

The ablest ever seen. 






PREFACE 



.He sleeps upon a roller mill, 

On millstones takes his feed, 
And lives on shorts and red dog, 

The food that poets need. 
We keep him in the dust room 

Until it's Christmas time, 
When from his cage he breaks away 

And grinds his awful rhyme." 

To this collection from- the Lusty Lyre's past output 
in The Northwestern Miller have been added some 
rhymes by the same writer which originally appeared 
in other publications, including Life, Puck, Harper's 
Weekly and The Bellman. 

— W. C. E. 

Minneapolis, Minn., October, 1921. 




The Mill of the Years 

(1887) 

OLD TIME, in his wonderful Mill of the Years, 
Grinds daily an output of joys and of tears; 
And the sum of his grist for the year passing by, 
Now almost complete, is recorded on high. 
The good deeds, the bad ones, the gainings and winnings, 
The partings and meetings, the virtues and sinnings, 
Have all gone, perforce, through this terrible mill, 
And the hopper of Time is unsatisfied still. 
The goods deeds grade Patent; you usually find 
That forty per cent is the most these mills grind. 
Of fair words and intentions, Time makes a Straight 

grade, 
And regretfully notes 'tis the bulk of his trade. 
His Bakers' he gleans from the best that he can 
And his Red Dog is made from the weakness of Man. 
In the Offal and Waste go the crimes and the sins, 
And are spouted, they say, to some very warm bins. 
The experts declare that Time's system is poor — 
That the Mill of the Years' somewhat ancient is sure — 
But Head Miller Death is a hard one to beat; 
He says that the mill's -not in fault, but the wheat — 
That the All-Wise Millbuilder, who laid out the plan, 
Made the very best mill e'er constructed for man. 
That its system is perfect, machinery fine, 
Not a spout out of place, not a shaft out of line; 
In short, that the mill every way is first class, 
But the stuff that is ground in it's lacking, alas ! 
That the good Human Wheat is so mixed up with lies 
And Satan's own Cockle, 'tis quite a surprise 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

That the Mill of the Years doesn't grind all low grade, 

For the exclusive use of a tropical trade. 

Be that as it may, grinds this mill day and night, 

With an awful, resistless and terrible might; 

And ever shall grind until Time from his store 

Shall exhaust the last year; and exist nevermore. 



Too Much Flour 

(1892) 

THEY say "There exists a great surplus of flour. 
'Tis a drug, and the market grows worse every hour. 
With the storehouses full and more stuff coming 
still, 
We must curtail the output and shut down the mill." 

Think of the life-giving, health-saving food, 
In its snowy white sacks, in its smooth-shaven wood ; 
Think of it pushed on "a market that's dead," 
While a million of mortals are hungry for bread ! 

Heaps of it, piles of it, barrels and sacks of it, 
Shiploads and carloads, and uncounted stacks of it. 
The miller can't sell it, the dealer can't buy, 
And for lack of it people must suffer and die! 

Crowded in tenements, lurking in holes; 
Sick as to body and worse as to souls; 
Crouched in the alley, or prowling the street, 
Seeking and begging the bread which they eat. 

Think of the terrible army of Hunger, 
Enrolling the older, enlisting the younger; 
Ready to riot or ready to steal, 
Ready to die for the hope of a meal. 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

Women whose faces are famished and white, 
Children who waken from hunger at night; 
Men who are starving and fall by the way — 
And flour is a drug in the market, they say ! 

Look at it! Never a pound without power — 
Even the poorest and cheapest of flour. 
Think of the terrible cry, "Give us bread!" 
And the thousands who utter it going unfed. 

Warehouses full, and unnumbered who lack it; 
Souls it could save — yet "it don't pay to sack it.' 
Wisdom of man ! Your philanthropy's pitiful ! 
Unlimited food, and of hunger a city-full. 



Ye Floury Humbugs 
(1892) 

SO, bless ye, merry miller-men — 
In sooth a curious lot; 
Which maketh resolutions fine 
W hereby to keep them not. 

And each his neighbor's throat would cut 

By competition sharp, 
While singing sweet of harmony 

And whanging Friendship's harp. 

Each vows the other is his friend 

And reacheth for his gun. 
Methinks 'tis well ye meet by day, 

Xot after set of sun. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Ye sagely prate of wicked ones, 

Who speculate in wheat, 
Then slyly take a whirl yourselves 

Chicago's game to beat. 

Full sweet is it to hear ye tell 

How millers all should act. 
Your words are good and kind enough 

To print within a tract. 

Ye weep about delaying freights 
And date your shipments back; 

Alack, the poor line agent knows 
Who holds the long-lost track. 

Indignantly ye often speak 

Of steamship lines, but note 
How quick a cut can always fill 

The poorest hulk afloat. 

And yet ye are a goodly throng; 

We wish ye much of cheer. 
May fortune smile upon ye all 

Throughout the coming year. 



Gathered In 
(1890) 

WHAT ho ! my merry miller 
Who but three days ago, 
Didst with thy genial, sunny smile 
Arrive from Chee-caw-go, 
Art feeling gay and festive yet? 
Has time gone swift or slow? 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

"Go get thee hence," the miller said, 
"My time will soon be o'er 

And once again I must return 
To work and worry sore; 

My heart is sad, my head is large 
And I must laugh no more. 

"But ere I leave this busy town 
And homeward take my way, 

Go find for me that blithesome one, 
Who met me yesterday; 

Who said he knew my folks at home 
And did the bunco play. 

"For him a welcome warm have I, 

A club extremely strong, 
Go face me with this dapper youth; 

I won't detain him long." 
The miller sighed full wearily, 

I wept to hear his song. 



The Miller Who Knows It All 
(1889) 

HIS mill is a model mill; 
It never needs repairs. 
There is nothing new 
That he can't see through, 

And improvements are mostly snares. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

His brands are always the best. 

And they find a ready sale. 
At a price so high 
That it makes you sigh 

When you hear him tell the tale. 

He always sells for cash; 

He never consigns a sack. 
His buyers all pay, 
He is pleased to say, 

And his orders are never slack. 

His flour is never off; 

His mill is never down. 
His shipments delay 
Not a single day 

On their road to the seaport town. 

An association join? 

Ah, no ! He does not need 
Any outside aid. 
He is not afraid 

Of the patent attorney's greed. 

Such things are not for him; 

They may do for the miller small. 
They are quite too slow 
For our friend, you know, 

The miller who knows it all. 



(In 18S9 the Millers' National Association, organized for 
mutual defense against patent litigation, was in active ex- 
istence. The consignment evil was one of the trade abuses 
which the millers were struggling to overcome and delays in 
transit were a common cause of complaint.) 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

Our German Millers 
(1892) 

THERE'S Uncle Ferd'nand' Schumacher, 
He doesn't seem to mind 
The market's ups and downs a bit, 

But keeps a tranquil mind. 
With one eye on the drunkard, 

Whose habits give him pain, 
He runs his mills, come fair or foul — ■ 

You don't hear him complain. 
And there is good George Urban 

(He says he's German too), 
You seldom hear him kicking 

Whate'er the markets do. 
And tho' perhaps he has ill luck 

And finds his business slow, 
He seems to keep his spirits up 

And laugh away his woe. 
This seems to indicate to us 

That there must be a trace 
Of calm and staid philosophy 

In all the German race. 
And tho' our German millers 

Will tell you (with a grin) 
That milling is a losing trade 

At which they cannot win, 
Still, if you'll look around the field 

And mark the Germans there 
You'll note that looks of sadness 

And suffering are rare. 
Perhaps we are in error, 

But we've oft remarked before, 
That mills run by the Germans keep 

No wolf around the door; 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

And we rather think that this is due 

Not half so much to luck, 
As to cheerfulness of spirit 

And good old German pluck. 

(Ferdinand Schumacher, of Akron, Ohio, was at this 
period the leading oatmeal miller of the country. He was 
also very prominent in the cause of temperance. Then, as 
now, George Urban, Jr., of Buffalo, N. Y., was a well-known 
and very popular miller.) 



The Extremely Jolly Miller 

(1885) 

IT is a Jolly Miller 
Who grindeth on the Falls; 
He dammeth of the river, 

And loud for power calls. 
He doeth best who kicketh best 

All things both great and small, 
And 'tis the Jolly Miller 

Who kicketh best of all. 
First 'tis the ebbing river 

Which urgeth him to heat, 
And then he loudly howleth 

About the price of wheat; 
Again it is the anchor ice, 

Or markets going down; 
Anon it's trouble with the wheel 

That makes the miller frown. 
Oh, yes, a merry critter 

Is the miller, I avow; 
The gayest, merriest, happiest soul. 

Especially — just now! 

(When this was written the millers of Minneapolis de- 
pended entirely upon water power, and in winter their 
operations were greatly handicapped by anchor ice.) 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

Cause and Effect 
(1885) 

NOW the water in the Falls is getting low, 
And, of course, cavorting upward prices go; 
While of steam the miller thinks 
And the engine builder winks 
As he contemplates the ducats that will flow. 

(It was not long thereafter that steam power began to 
supplement the water supply and Minneapolis millers became 
more independent of the vagaries of nature in their opera- 
tions.) 



Say, Where Is McCannf 

(1890) 

WHAT we're anxious to learn, 
What we ask every man 
Who comes up from the south 
Is, "Say, where is McCann, 
The Tennessee poet and miller?" 

Will somebody answer who can? 
He'll be missed at the meeting 

And missed at the bar, 
At banquet and picnic, 

Say, won't he be thar? 
If he won't then the lack of his laughter 
Our pleasure most sorely will mar. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

He hasn't so far said he wouldn't, 
And he hasn't so far said he would, 

And it's certain our Tennessee poet 
Would surely come up if he could. 

Some hope; and resolve that we'll give him 
A royal good time, if he should. 

(One of the gentlest and most lovable men in the milling 
business in those days was the "Miller Poet," Mr. McC'ann 
of Nashville, Tennessee, who used to write "poetry" almost 
as bad as that of his friend The Lusty Lyre. He has been 
dead these many years, but millers who attended conventions 
during his time will recall with a smile how much his 
presence contributed to the gayety of these occasions.) 



To a Mill Wheel 
(1885) 

DAY by day and night by night 
(Yes, and longer), 
Have I listened in affright 
(Growing stronger), 
And with many a hasty word 
Have I spoken as I heard 
Every one-horse, broken-backed, two- 

for-a-nickel milling journal on earth 
Raise a fuss 
On the mill wheel and its clack. 
Till my soul is on the rack 
And I hear each poet quack 
With a cuss — . 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

A Christmas Carol 

(1885) 

CAROL! carol! miller! 
Carol like a man, 
For flour's down and wheat is up, 
But carol if you can. 

Carol ! carol ! miller ! 

Times are most merry now; 
The devil's got the markets, 

You've got to stand the row. 



Another 

(1885) 

RING out the, bells, 
And raffle for turkey; 
The markets are cranky, 
And wheat it is jerky. 
But ring in the new year 

And chase off the old, 
And it's luck to the miller 
And plenty of gold. 



Revised Mother Goose 

(1885) 

LITTLE Miss Profit, 
At one time she saw fit 
To visit the miller so gay; 
Came Loss like a spider 
And sat down beside her, 
And frightened Miss Profit away. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Money No Object 

(1885) 

A MILLER who went on a spree 
Remarked, "What is money to me? 
For a bushel of wheat 
I can paint all the street, 
And a nice troop of elephants see." 



He Trimmed 'Em 

(1885) 

AN OLD miller once on the Falls 
Was pestered by too many call 
So he greased his doorway, 
And made happy each day 
By chalking the drops on the walls. 



Butted the Button 

(1885) 

UPON a summer afternoon 
A tender lad — a real gossoon — 
Of ladies, quite a large platoon 
Thro' Washburn's mill did guide. 
The elevator upward drew, 
And as the floors* they clambered thro" 
The tired ladies seemed to rue 
The trip, and faintly sighed. 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

Perhaps 'twere well here to explain 
That in this mill a complex skein 
Of wires, confusing to the brain 

(Or eye's perhaps the word), 
Lead up and down and round about 
To save long walks or yell and shout. 
Avoiding useless verbal spout, 

Which always seems absurd. 

These wires connect with buttons slick, 
Which in the office walls are thick; 
You touch them, and arriving quick 

You see a proper man 
Who gives report about the mill, 
How goes the work, if good or ill, 
And otherwise awaits your will — ■ 

Ingenious is the plan. 

One button tells of fire's outbreak; 

This summons makes the hearers quake — 

Exceeding lively legs they shake — 

An uproar loud they raise. 
Each hastens as he can to aid 
The working of the fire brigade, 
For every worker is afraid 

To see a hungry blaze. 

Well, as we stated here before. 
The party went from floor to floor, 
The guide explained with words galore, 

(He was a well read guide), 
Told of the work the main shaft does, 
Showed how the wheat was cleaned of fuzz, 
Until, worn out with hum and buzz, 

The gentle ladies sighed. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Then seating them until he'd call 
A man from some far distant hall 
By pushing button in the wall, 

He'd show authority, 
And how the electric signal flew 
From floor to floor the great mill thro'— 
An interesting thing he knew 

The button dodge to be. 

The row of buttons on the wall 
Were rightly labeled for each call. 
But pride precedes the usual fall; 

The wrong alarm he sent, 
And at his summons flying came 
The dusties sturdy, fleet and game, 
The long, the short, the quick, the lame, 

Equipped with implement. 

A hundred voices yelled out, "Well? 
Where is the fire we come to quell?" 
With hand grenades and Babcocks well 
' Were fixed this dusty band. 
And on, and on, and on they came, 
Seeking each one the quivering flame, 
And anxious each to win a name 
For being first on hand. 

The guide was rattled, quite up broke. 
"There is no fire," at last he spoke. 
Remarks were made. "Confound the bloke 

For spreading this alarm." 
The ladies certain were amused, 
The guide with blushing was confused, 
And every one in turn abused 

The author of the harm. 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

What else occurred we will pass o'er, 

And only add that nevermore 

That guileless man from floor to floor 

Will lady callers guide. 
All kinds of buttons he eschews, 
And on his clothes Mill only use 
Buckles and safety pins. His shoes 

With hempen strings are tied. 

(The hero of this lay — dead long ago — was an amiable 
young man who came to Minneapolis in the pioneer days 
and, in addition to "parting his name in the middle," aroused 
much good-natured criticism by introducing various innova- 
tions, including a tandem cart with a "tiger" on the back 
seat. His connection with the milling business was not long 
continued, but during it he was the unconscious source of 
much innocent hilarity because of his idiosyncrasies, withal 
being a man of more than ordinary ability.) 



The Ballad of Mr. Brown 

(1892) 

THERE lived a prosperous miller once, 
Whose name was J. P. Brown, 
Whose cognomen quite common was 
In this same miller's town. 

For Brownsville was the city's name, 

And Brown the county, too. 
Brown also was the postmaster, 

Sold meat, a Brown or two. 

Brown colored were the houses, 

Brown kept a grocer-ee, 
Brown banked, Brown baked, Brown shod, 
Brown brewed, 

Brown shaved jou frequentlee. 

15 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

And not one Smith or Jones was there 

In all the district round; 
You might have hunted far and near, 

But mostly Browns you'd found. 

Now, Miller Brown ambitious was, 
And longed for wealth and fame. 

It vexed his heart to have to hide 
Behind the common name. 

Perhaps this seems a trifling thing 

To worry you or me, 
But then our names are all our own; 

Poor Brown's was not, you see. 

If some obscure, degraded Brown 

Was hauled away to jail, 
Of "Brown the thief," or "Burglar Brown" 

Was told the gossip's tale. 

And, look you, if he. made a hit, 

'Twas only "Brown's in luck," 
It only helped the lot named Brown, 

And there, alas ! it stuck. 

Now, Miller Brown was sensitive, 

And did not care to pass 
As simply one among the Browns, 

An atom in a mass. 

He found it useless to attempt 

To gain distinction, when 
The common Brown of commerce merged 

Himself with other men. 



MILLS AND MILLERS 

In vain he tried "Jay Perkyns Brown." 

The title would not stick, 
Although he so marked all his things 

From flour sack to slick. 

And Brown so worried over this 
.('Tis sad, though you may grin), 

That from a plump and pleasant man, 
He grew morose and thin. 

He meditated schemes of flight, 

And thought of suicide, 
But felt that had he killed himself 

His name would not have died. 

I've told how Brown grew lean and sour. 

Each day he moped the more, 
And soon his trade began to go, 

And custom left his door. 

He got in debt and fell behind — 

One day the sheriff came. 
Brown smiled a bitter kind of smile, 

Remarked "he wa'n't to blame." 

They took away the mill from Brown, 
He passed out from the door, 

And placed his bundle on his back 
And — smiled again once more. 

Since then the former Miller Brown 
Has grown quite sleek and fat, 

He wanders all the country o'er, 
And wears a shocking hat. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

He tramps it in a blithesome way, 
Well known as "Brown the vag," 

And happy and content is Brown, 
Although his coat's a rag. 

For strangely is the same Brown made. 

In his peculiar mind. 
It makes him really pleased to feel 

He's damaging his kind. 

He always names himself as Brown, 

It seems to make him glad 
To circulate the idea round 

That all the Browns are bad. 

He reasons that a score he has 

To settle with his name, 
And so he hooks a chicken here, 

And gives to Brown the blame. 

Whene'er he takes a trip to jail, 

He gives the name of Brown, 
And glories in producing proofs 

That he's from Brownsville town. 

He labels all his clothing Brown, 

In letters plain and large, 
And as a living scarecrow seeks 

His ill fame to enlarge. 

He burglarizes, murders, steals, 
"With compliments of Brown." 

His aim and happiness it is 
To kick the Brown name down. 



THE ENGLISH INVASION 



To Our Masters 

(1889) 



H 



AIL, England, hail ! 

Or, as your sons say, 'ail ! 
Thou pluck'st the feathers 
From the Eagle's tail. 



You own our railways, 
Capture all our land, 

And buy up brewers 
With a mighty hand. 

Thine are the cattle 
On our thousand hills; 

And thine at last, alas ! 
Our flouring mills. 

Hail, mighty England ! 

Tho' she won in fight, 
America is conquered 

By your checkbook's might. 



It's English, You Know 
(1889) 

OH THE beer which we drink, and the salt which 
we use 
Are English, you know, all English, you know, 
And our bankers and brewers and makers of shoes 

Are English, rich English, you know. 
They own all our railways and most of our banks, 
They are buying the very best things from the Yanks, 
They take our investments and say, "Aw, yes, thanks," 
These English, rich English, you know. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Chorus— 

Oh the rumors you hear, and the stories they tell, 
Of English, you know, yes, English, you know, 
Might induce you to think that our souls we might 
sell 
To the English, rich English, you know. 

They have bought up our stocks and they own all our 
land, 

These English, you know, rich English, you know. 
They have captured our sugar and cornered our sand. 

These English, rich English, you know. 
They are getting an option on everything loose, 
For each golden egg laid they have bought up a goose, 
And expect to consign Yankee ways to the deuce, 

These English, rich English, you know. 

It is rumored about that American flour 

Is English, you know, part English, you know, 

If they haven't bought yet, they may buy any hour, 
These English, smart English, you know. 

Still a great many grin when these stories they hear, 

Of shoes and tobacco and flour and beer, 

And remark that perhaps they are paying quite dear, 
These English, shrewd English, you know. 

And perchance they may purchase our end of the earth, 
These English, you know, bright English, you know, 
But it's dollars to doughnuts they pay what it's worth, 

These English, shrewd English, you know. 
The American Eagle will still proudly sail, 
And decline to be snared by gold salt on his tail, 
In their efforts to own him perhaps they may fail, 
These English, bright English, you know. 



THE ENGLISH INVASION 

The Millowner Contemplates a Journey 
(1889) 



A 



H, Hennery, pack me luggage 

And call a cabby here; 
For I must leave old Lunnon 
Before the glad new year. 



Ye know I've bought some flour mills, 

Some lifts and other rot, 
Somewhere out west there, don't ye know, 

I cawn't recall the spot. 

It's some place near Cheecawgo 

Or Bawston — I'm not clear — ■■ 
I fawncy that it's near the town 

I bought, that makes Jhe beer. 

I'd like to see the beggars 

Who grind me out me flour, 
And so I'll leave the city 

Within this very hour. 

And, Hennery, pack me hunting gear, 

I'd like to shoot a bit. 
They tell me there's some sport out there; 

They often make a hit. 

There's like to be some Indians, 

And while I am not scared, 
When going on a trip like this, 

'Tis well to be prepared. 

21 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

So pack me luggage, Hennery, 

And call a cabby here; 
For I must see me properties 

Before the glad new year. 

(Thirty-two years ago English capital undertook to exploit 
American industries. The movement was stimulated by a 
strong demand for industrial stocks in the London market, 
and a great many British promoters came to the United 
States for the purpose of obtaining options on manufacturing 
plants. The Americans who disposed of their properties 
almost invariably obtained a handsome price, capitalizing 
their good will at a liberal figure. Some of these investments 
turned out well, but others did not. This financial fashion 
was slightly waning when American flour mills and wheat 
elevators began to be subject to negotiation, and compara- 
tively little progress was made in this direction. The three 
foregoing lays were inspired by this movement.) 



Kicked on the Substantials 

(1885) 

THERE was a bold chap in Calcutta, 
Who shouted out, "Blawst bread and buttah, 

I intend to have cake 
Or bones I will break." 
(In the bake shops he caused quite a fluttah.) 



Everybody Knows This Barber 

(1885) 

A MILLER who rose from his grave, 
Said, "I think I'll drop in for a shave," 

And his barber cried out, 
"I believe beyond doubt, 
With my tonic vour back hair I'll save !" 



EPITAPHS 

Became a Canuck 

(1885) 

THERE was a bank teller named Pete, 
Who slyly was wont to hit wheat, 

His cash being short 
He removed by report 
To Toronto, where bank tellers meet. 



An Epitaph 

(1890) 

BENEATH this stone a miller lies 
Who left the world before the rise 
Of modern ways of making flour, 
And hence passed many a happy hour. 
He was not forced to speculate. 
Nor on Chicago's movements wait; 
He did not care for foreign trade, 
But sold his neighbors all he made. 
Cables and telegrams were rare — 
The markets did not make him swear; 
Small was his mill, his profits round; 
Clear was his head, his slumbers sound. 
He envied none, was envied not, 
And died contented with his lot. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Another 

(1890) 

HERE lies, poor soul, a tired man — 
A miller on the modern plan. 
He was not born to rest content 
With modest mill and life well spent. 
Great was his output- — near and far 
He sold his product by the car; 
Sought over seas the golden store 
That once he garnered at his door. 
By speculators vexed and worried, 
Thro' life's brief span his course was hurried, 
Until on earth no rest he found, 
And gladly sought it underground. 

(The first of these epitaphs was the origin of an interest- 
ing incident. ' Years after it was written, there appeared in 
an American newspaper an account of a very old millstone 
monument, said to have been seen somewhere in Ohio, which 
bore this inscription. The story went the rounds of the 
American press, the monument being discovered in various 
places. Some years later it appeared in an English periodical, 
and subsequently was published in India, making its way 
slowly around the world. Curious to ascertain the facts, 
The Northwestern Miller endeavored to trace the story to its 
original source and finally learned that a miller living in 
Ohio had the epitaph inscribed on a discarded millstone with 
the idea of having it placed over himself when he died. 
Before this happened the mill burned, the site was aban- 
doned and the miller himself moved away. The millstone 
remained where he had left it and an inventive reporter, 
happening to see it, started the story of the miller's monu- 
ment on its long and honorable career.) 

Stranded 
(1911) 

THERE was a poor artist in Rome 
Who remarked, "I'm a long way from home, 
But it's cheaper to stay 
Here a year and a day 
Than to hike back to Oshkosh from Rome." 



THE ESTEEMED CONTEMPORARY 

The Way It Is Done 

(1885) 

HE dips his pen in mouldy ink 
And forthwith on the yellow page 
He traceth ancient saws and quips 
And maxims of some long dead sage. 

He sheareth with his rusty shears, 
Then hangs them on the cobwebbed wall, 

And pasteth with some half dried paste 
The slips that from the shears do fall. 

Then some time in the coming month 

He maileth to subscribers old 
The Miller 'Mericanus trite, 

Crusted with age, and sad and cold. 



Humor Prehistoric 

(1885) 

IF for ancient lore you're anxious, 
The curtained past to raise, 

Learn why Caesar used to linger 
With his nose against his finger 
(Roman nose and index finger) 

Telling jest of early days — 
Seek no more in old library, 
Search no musty commentary — 
These are recent ; modern — very ; 

Seek the only truthful sage. 
In Awericanus Miller, 
There, all petrified — but stiller — 
Ancient, moss grown, most fossiler. 

Is a funny page. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Humor here we find from ages 
Long before Silurian stages, 
Poets sung or talked the sages, 

Pterodactyls spoke. 
Here translated and rewritten 
Are the same bright things side-splittin' 
Which, when Adam, garden-quittin', 

Made a joke. 



Another Go at the American 
(1885) 

I KNOW it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin, 
At it here; 
But its trade items and news, 
Its clippings and reviews 
Are so queer! 



Advantageous Location 

(1885) 

UNDER the spreading chestnut tree 
The Miller American stands. 
It shakes the limbs and the old jokes fall 
Into its waiting hands. 
Notes on the buhr and the trade item too, 
Gladly it gathers there, 

And not an item or topic or theme 
But seemeth to wear gray hair. 



THE ESTEEMED CONTEMPORARY 

Beats Morphine 
(1885) 

A MILLER whose age was fourscore 
Said, "To read is a terrible bore; 
So I'll take for a piller 
The 'Merican Miller." 
(The neighbors next door heard him snore.) 







Slumber Song 
(1885) 

ANCIENT battered type, 

O cover, fadey blue, 
Again, sweet Miller 'Merican, 
My song must be of you. 



Mayhap you do not care, 
'Tis said that you are weary 

And do not love to hear me sing 
My little lyric cheery. 

But ever as I sing, 

I hear the mill wheels clack; 
And to my dreaming soul 

Old memories come back. 

All innocent of news — 
You aid my dreamy mind, 

And in your columns wide 
No rude shock shall I find. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Ah, dearly do I love 

To read your monthly number, 
Your dear, delightful pages lead 

Seductively to slumber. 

Oh, drowsy, dear American, 

I weary of this life; 
Oh put me on your deadhead list, 

I long to cease from strife. 



No Choice 

(1885) 

A MILLER whose back was of moss 
Said, "The 'Merican Miller's the boss. 
When it's read upside down 
It's as good, I'll be boun'; 
'Twixt either side up it's a toss." 



All on the Quiet 

(1885) 

A ROCK being broken in two, 
A handsome old frog came to view, 
Who said it was stiller 
Round the 'Merican Miller 
Than in any rock that he knew. 



THE ESTEEMED CONTEMPORARY 

He Read a Paid Write-Up 

(1885) 



I 



N the 'Merican Miller a man 
Discovered a wonderful plan 
For grinding his flour, 
And felt very sour, 
Because it sold cheaper than bran. 



The Subtle Somnolent 
(1885) 

"TT7HAT ho! good ancient, 
\\ Wherefore dost thou doze 
With loud resounding snore 
And spectacles on nose?" 

"Good lack," quoth he, 
"I merely looked it o'er." 

The Miller 'Mericaniis, as he spoke, 
Did smite the floor. 



(The Lusty Lyre, being new to journalism, and a bit of 
an amateur, must needs pay his respects in ribald rhyme to 
rival trade publications; this was the fashion of the time. 
The subject of the lays here given, which The Northwestern 
Miller is glad to say prosperously survives, will doubtless 
pardon their republication, since any animus which may have 
existed when they appeared has long since evaporated under 
the kindly process of the passing years.) 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 



Y 



What Is a Bag of Flour? 
(1892) 

E millers all, come hear the news 

Which the Jackson line doth tell; 
"A bag of flour is a bag of flour," 
A fact remember well. 



You can ship a red dog, patent or straight, 

It doesn't matter a dern; 
"A bag of flour is a bag of flour," 

And millers must live and learn. 

You can brand in red, you can brand in blue, 
"Superlative," "Extra" or "Best"; 

"A bag of flour is a bag of flour," 
Let it come from east or west. 

For a difference in price of a shilling or two, 

The Jackson line don't care; 
"A bag of flour is a bag of flour," 

In their bill of lading rare. 

You may mark your sacks to suit yourself, 

You may also pay the freight. 
Your buyer may stand on the sad sea sand 

And patiently watch and wait; 

But this is the limit of what you can do, 

For Jackson & Company say 
That "a bag of flour is a bag of flour," 

At least, when it comes their way. 

They are free to deliver to suit themselves. 

Whatever is handiest goes; 
For "a bag of flour is a bag of flour," 

As every smart ship-owner knows. 



SEA SONGS 

The mark on the outside? What of that? 

They haven't the time to heed. 
"A bag of flour is a bag of flour," 

Can they be expected to read? 

O go your ways, ye millers great; 

Likewise ye millers small. 
"A bag of flour is a bag of flour," 

This rule applies to all; 

For the Jackson folk are wondrous wise, 
They have written it down as a law 

That "a bag of flour is a bag of flour," 
So the lawyers can now withdraw. 

(A well-known British steamship line, relying- upon the 
limitless latitude allowed the ship owner in the bill of lading- 
used at this time, proffered, in lieu of the flour purchased by 
the consignee, an equal amount of an entirely different 
quality, made by another mill, and actually held that under 
the terms of its receipt this was a proper delivery, as "a bag 
of flour was a bag of flour irrespective of its brand or the 
character of its contents." From this absurd position it was 
subsequently forced to withdraw.) 



The Modern Pirate 

(1890) 

WHEN Captain Kidd was a pirate bold, 
He loved a ship to scuttle; 
Full many a throat he slit in glee, 
And many a treasure gobbled he, 
With his methods fierce and subtle. 

31 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

He proudly strode the quarter-deck 

With dirk and cutlass handy; 
And woe to him who crossed his way — 
He walked the plank that very day, 

To please this pirate dandy. 



But, as it might have been supposed, 

The law at last descended; 
The captain for his fights and gains 
Soon found himself hung up in chains, 
His bright career quite ended. 



Altho' the black flag long has ceased 

To terrorize the ocean, 
The pirates of the sea are still 
Engaged in robbing at their will, 

And when they feel the notion. 



They do not wear a cutlass now; 

All violence evading, 
They use a weapon which they find 
Exactly suited to their mind — 

The modern bill of lading. 



(For many years exporting millers and their British cus- 
tomers struggled with the ocean carriers to obtain a fair bill 
of lading in place of the archaic shipping document which 
the steamship lines forced them to use. The subject was 
discussed at all the millers' conventions and finally it was 
necessary to go to Congress to secure redress. The passage 
of the Harter Act was the first step toward securing a more 
equitable bill of lading.) 



LIMERICKS 

Britannia Rules the Waves 
(1911) 

THERE was an Inglese in Venice 
Who used the canals for lawn tennis; 
"These excellent nets," 
She remarked, between sets, 
"I procure from the fishers of Venice." 



The Wily Old Master 
(1911) 

A PAINTER there was in Milan 
Who said, "I've an excellent plan; 
I shall finish so few 
Of the paintings I do 
That my name will be great in Milan. 



Un Fiorentino Spirito Bizarro 
(1911) 

AN ECCENTRIC shopkeeper of Florence 
Held the tourist in scornful abhorrence, 
When requested to sell, 
He'd reply, "Go to — ," well, 
His words were the scandal of Florence. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Truth About Ulysses 
(1911) 

THERE was an exploring old Greek 
Who sailed to Salerno one week. 
He said, with a scowl, 
"How these blamed sirens howl ! 
You can't even hear yourself speak." 

Overheard on the Piazza 
(1911) 

THERE was an old dove of St. Mark 
Who, while feeding, was heard to remark, 
"These tourists are kind, 
But they put me in mind 
Of my ancestors' tales of the ark." 



The Editor and the Balancing Pole 
(1885) 

An editor being the envied owner of two advertise- 
ments, from rival manufacturers who were engaged in a 
patent warfare, was endeavoring by care fid editorial 
mention to satisfy both his customers and thm save the 
advertising columns. To 'perform this feat successfully, 
he found it necessary not only to arise early in the 
morning, but to stay tip all night. In one of his sleep- 
less attacks he wrote the following and shortly after- 
ward turned up his toes: 



I 



T'S oh to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where one has never an ad. to save 
If this be Christian work. 



THE BUILDING OF THE MILL 

It's scrawl, and scribble, and scratch, 

Of patents, and cases, and suits, 
Of measly decisions 
And prophetic visions, 

A-scaring one out of his boots. 

Oh, it's little I wot of the law 

And it's little I know of its sting, 

But to scribble and scrawl 

On a patent suit brawl, 

Ah! this is a horrible thing! 

Oh, I never sleep in the night, 
But I dream with a terrible chill 

Of the Octopus' claw 

Reaching out for my paw, 

And remarking, "I have you, friend Bill !" 

Then a tottering new purifier 
Exciteth the Octopus' ire, 

And they fight on my chest 

With a terrible zest, 
And I think I will surely expire. 

But up comes a patent suit then, 

Arrayed in a judicial gown, 
And a travelling brush 
And a job lot of slush 

On my stomach all dance up and down. 

The spirit of old man Lacroix 
Appears to be maddened with joy; 

A bolting chest rare 

Twines its hand in my hair 
And exclaims, "I am with you, my boy! - ' 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Now I hold that the wealth of the world 

Is payment far short of his due 
Of the man who must write 
On this theme erudite 

And I know that my statement is true. 

(Millbuilding and milling machinery occupied a great deal 
of the attention of millers at this period. The introduction 
of the purifier, and of what was called "the new process," 
by which the roller mill superseded the millstone, and the 
development of the "gradual reduction" system of flour mill- 
ing were still comparatively recent. There was great activity 
in the remodeling and rebuilding of plants and many new 
mills were being constructed. The Lusty Lyre naturally 
found opportunity for rhyming in incidents connected with 
this movement, and as this and the lays which follow testify 
he freely availed himself of it.) 



Another St. John Man 
(1885) 

GOOD Captain S., of rotund form, 
And jolly laugh, and cheerful joke, 
(A purifier man is he, 
Who sells the make of Smith, George T.), 
Stood in the office door and spoke: 



"Today,* of course, the Democrats 
Rejoice and guzzle beer; 

Quite different my feelings are — 
Regret and pain are here. 

"I am an old Republican 

And fought throughout the war; 
Therefore my party's tumble 

Provokes a feeling sore. 



THE BUILDING OF THE MILL 

"And even that I could allow. 

And still, perhaps, brace up, 
But on account of Cleveland's tricks 

I lose the cheering cup. 

"To keep a four years' swear-off, 

In short, I did agree. 
If Cleveland should be President, 

And that's what worries me. 

"You need not ask me up to drink, 

Because I must decline. 
For four years from election day 

Strict abstinence is mine." 



(Prohibition was an academic question in 1885 and Gover- 
nor St. John was one of its leading- advocates. Grover Cleve- 
land was elected President at the election of 1884. Mill- 
furnishers, such as "Captain S." referred to in this rhyme, 
were accustomed in those days to indulge at least moderately 
in the cheering cup, and the outcome of his unfortunate 
wager was a much more serious hardship than it would be 
now.) 



To (Pillsbury) B—Or Not to B! 

(1885) 

A THOUSAND millwrights steadily 
Inquire for William Gunn. 
A thousand millwrights did I say? 
Five thousand — if there's one! 

They come from East, and West and South, 
All eagerly to see 

Who from among the lusty throng- 
Can labor on the B. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

And William G. they seek at once 

(Sometimes they look for Gray). 
Alas ! their lot is sadly cast, 

For William keeps away. 

And Mr. Gray he lingereth 

Where sounds the Gulf Stream's roar, 

And all expectant millwrights 
Are heard to cuss, swear, swore. 

(William, better known as "Billy," Gunn was a well- 
known millbuilder of Minneapolis who was engaged by 
William D. Gray, then of E. P. Allis & Company, to super- 
intend the construction of the Pillsbury B mill. This work 
necessitated the employment of a large number of mill- 
wrights. In consequence they nocked to Minneapolis from 
all parts of the country and usually applied to the office of 
The Northwestern Miller for information concerning the 
whereabouts of Messrs. Graj- and Gunn.) 



How He Built His Mill 

(1889) 

JOHN HENDERSON, of Johnstown, 
Resolved to build a mill; 
He had precious little money, 
And his credit it was nil; 

But he did not lack for shrewdness, 
Had great confidence in self, 

And possessed some other qualities 
More useful far than pelf. 

So he wrote to all millfurnishers, 

Inviting them to bid, 
And in glowing terms magniloquent 

His lack of funds he hid. 



THE BUILDING OF THE MILL 

He wrote about the site he owned 
('Twas given by the town), 

And alluded to the wheat crop 
Which was the country's crown. 

He chose his words so neatly, 
And wrote with such a grace, 

That those who got his letters 
Ached to build in such a place. 

So, upon the day appointed, 
The trains to Johnstown came 

Just loaded down with builders — • 
Every expert known to fame; 

And each one brought his plan along, 

A bid likewise brought he, 
And the way they clawed each other 

Was a pretty sight to see. 

In starting in, the terms were cash, 

But soon the contest grew 
Until each bidder tried his best 

The others to outdo. 

One guaranteed to give results 
That ne'er were known before; 

John Henderson he sweetly smiled, 
And said he'd think it o'er. 

The next one offered four years' time, 

And freely did agree 
To discount every item in 

The first one's guarantee. 

39 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

John Henderson he smiled again. 
And showed him to the door; 

And so there came another one 
Who guaranteed some more. 

The next one cut the price in two; 

Anon another came 
Who also helped John Henderson 

To play his little game. 

The contract was awarded then, 

And everyone was sad, 
For all had sought the mill to build 

And failure made them mad. 

And the saddest one of all the lot 

Of all the builders there 
Was the man who got the contract ; 

He wept and tore his hair. 

And smiling Mr. Henderson 
Soon owned a handsome mill 

For which the good millfurnisher 
Had kindly paid the bill. 



He buildeth best, who smileth best 

And hath the most of gall; 
And the man who "works" his fellow men 

He buildeth best of all. 



(Competition grew very keen as the number of rival mill- 
builders increased and the - demand for new mills slackened. 
So anxious were contractors to demonstrate the merits of 
their systems and machinery that not infrequently a bid was 
made at less than cost.) 

40 



THE BUILDING OF THE MILL 



T 



Overdosed 
(1889) 

HERE was a man who ran a mill: 

Most credulous was he, 
He listened oft to fairy tales 
About machineree. 



"New process" caught him every time, 

And everything he read 
About new things and novelties 

Completely turned his head. 

He scanned each advertisement new ; 

Oft pondered o'er and o'er 
The claims of every new device, 

And bought them by the score. 

Twice every year he tore things up 
And changed the mill around. 

He was the very choicest meat 
That e'er millbuilders found. 

In sooth, he was a curious man. 
Who, lacking not for wealth, 

Was ever pleased to run his mill 
Exclusively for health. 

Toward his door with joyful step 

Machinery agents came. 
Came also milling experts, who 

AVere widely known to fame. 

Short system men, and long ones too, 
Inventors, cranks and bores, 

He caught the lot, and never one 
AVas met by fastened doors. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

He saw them all, he talked with each, 
Believed whate'er they taught. 

No wonder that this worthy man 
By all the trade was sought. 

There came a time, a bitter day 
When, having heard them all. 

He went aside and kicked himself 
And wrote thus on his wall: 

"Ten per cent patent by Brown's new bolt 
And thirty more by Greens, 

And forty, they saj", 

I can add any day 
That I put in the Jones machines. 

"Twenty will come with the Jiggsby roll 
And ten with the reels they sent. 
By addition I find 
That of patents I'll grind 
One hundred and ten per cent !" 



He bathed his head in water cool, 
Then marked upon his gate 

A notice warning visitors 
To pause a while and wait. 

"Within this yard there lurks a dog 
Whose teeth are long and keen. 

Forbear to test them, ye who bring 
'A wonderful machine.' 

"Beside the dog, remark the gun, 

'Tis loaded to the brim; 
The man who talks of 'guarantees,' 

This gun is meant for him. 

42 



THE BUILDING OF THE MILL 

"And oh, observe the hired man, 

His knotted club hard by; 
With milling revolutionists 

Conclusions would he try. 

"All ye Who wonders would achieve 

On other mills commence, 
And those who seek a lamb to fleece 

Had better get from hence." 

(Ridiculous claims were often made by mill machinery 
makers of savings accomplished by their devices, and the 
increased amount of patent flour which their systems could 
produce. The advertisements in the trade press of the time 
were usually expressed in superlatives and no statement was 
too strong to suit the average inventor. Fortunately the 
miller was accustomed to make a very liberal discount for 
exaggeration.) 



A 



A "Strait" Tip 

(1895) 

SSEMBLED in the Nicollet, 

A crowd surged back and forth 
And every railway car was full, 
That travelled to'ard the North. 



Millfurnishers, from every state, 
Were gathered there that day : 

And every man felt confident 
Tbat things would go his way. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Within the bar the glasses rang, 

Responsive to a toast; 
And "inside tracks" and "pointers" were 

Each man's exclusive boast. 

Machinery men a many score 
Encamped upon the ground, 

And all around that noisy spot 
Millfurnishers were found. 

What meant this demonstration great? 

The reader may suggest; 
A contract to be let, it was, 

Inspired this wondrous zest. 

For 'twas a time when contracts few 

Came to the boys who sell, 
And whosoever purchased then 

Did buy exceeding well. 

The miller's face full solemn was, 

Both solemn and severe, 
As one who to the throng might say, 

"The contract is let here!' 

For three long days and nights was held 

This conclave at the inn; 
Men fainted from exhaustion, and 

The fattest man grew thin. 

At last the awful hour arrived; 

The miller bared his head, 
And, looking sternly on the crowd, 

These awful words he said: 



THE BUILDING OF THE MILL 

"Go hence, ye bold machinery men; 

Millbuilders, haste away; 
The contract that ye hope to gain 

I'll let s'mother dav !" 



Ah! but the language which that day 

The boys were heard to use; 
The cuss words, falling thick as hail, 

Commingled with abuse. 

And when, at last, the work was let, 

Altho' the few felt sore, 
The most of these machinery men 

Rejoiced that all was o'er. 

(The Nicollet House, in Minneapolis, was headquarters for 
millers and machinery men and here the out-of-town miller 
intending to build or remodel was accustomed to talk with 
competing bidders, some of whom had travelled a long dis- 
tance in order to meet him. Not infrequently the miller 
would decide to postpone awarding the contract and the 
disappointed millbuilders would have nothing to show for 
their work but a heavy expense account.) 



The Delegate from Center Station Interviews the 

Mill Furnisher 

(1889) 







UR folks at Center Station 
They hankered for a mill, 
' And all the fellers sot about 
Some way the want to fill. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

They met at Levy Isaac's place 

And sot around the store, 
And jawed the project up and down 

And spit upon the floor; 
And 'twas every feller's notion, 

They said it with a will, 
That the town of Center Station jest 
Had 
ter 
have 
a 
mill. 

They 'lowed that Thomson's Corner 

'Bout fifteen miles due west, 
Since gettin' up its flouring mill 

Had forged along the best; 
Had built two bran-new buildin's 

(Tho' one was still for rent) 
• And farmers' wives seemed all as if 

To trade there they was bent. 
So while all hands was jawin' 
Up jumped old Abner Gill 
And sez, "I'll tell you what it is, we've 
Got 
ter 
have 
a 

mill." 

"I'll give a yoke of oxen 

And a hundred dollars cash, 

And I'd like to hear from Brother Sharp, 
He's looking pritty brash"; 



THE BUILDING OF THE MILL 

And Sharp got up and said, "You bet 

I'm willin' to jine in"; 
So he agreed to pay as much 

To see the project win. 
Now when the Station humps itself 

There's lots of life there still, 
And so the fellers shouted out, "We're 
Bound 
ter 
have 
a 

mill." 

Inthusiasm ketched us hard 

And one by one we thumped 
Upon old Isaac's counter, 

Until the scheme jest humped. 
"I'll give my white-faced sorrel"; 

"Jes' put me down one steer"; 
"I'll donate all the wheat I get 
Off our lower field this year." 
And so they went on givin', 

First one, then 'nother, till 
They'd pledged enough among 'em to 
Build 
the 

blamed 
old 
mill. 

So we made a corporation 
An' portioned out the stock, 

And swapped fer land to put her on 
And hauled some buildin' rock. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

We've got the stuff all ready 

And waitin' ter begin, 
We'll knock out Thomson's Corner — 

The Station's bound to win. 
So I'm here to make a bargain 

A contrac' to fulfill, 
So draw me up yer figgers, we're 
Bound 
to 
have 
a 
mill. 



Excuse me, ain't you jokin'. 

Five thousand, did you say? 
Great Gosh ! and Center Station s 

A hundred miles away ! 
Why, some one got the figgers 

From that Thomson's Corner fraud, 
An' he said the whole caboodle 
Cost but fifteen hundred odd. 
Five thousand ! Great Jehosaphat ! 

Worth more than Abner Gill ! 
I reckon Center Station's got 
To 
go 

without 
her 
mill. 

(This jingle indicates the desire of every country town, at 
this time, to have a new, up-to-date flour mill. The old 
grist mill with the overshot wheel was rapidly passing, 
indeed had practically gone, and the ambitious village 
yearned for a modern roller mill. Very often its yearnings 
were gratified at considerable local sacrifice, the new mill 
frequently proving a white elephant.) 



I 



WITHOUT EXCUSE 

Musically Mutilated 
(1885) 

WENT to church the other night— 

I did not go to scoff — 
I went to hear the good man's words. 
But not to take them off. 



Metho't, perhaps when I get there 
I'll hear the well-known ring 

Of some of those old-fashioned hymns, 
Where all the people sing. 

And so I donned a quiet tie, 

And sober as a clam, 
I took me to the village church 

With thoughts of hymn and psalm. 

But bless your boots ! there was a yell 

As I came in the door; 
I wondered how the seats retained 

Their places on the floor. 

The village choir, forsooth, it was, 

A-going for a hymn; 
And the chances for that fated song 

(It seemed to me) were slim. 

They took the old familiar words, 
• By one, by two, by three, 
They split 'em up, they juggled 'em, 
They jerked them round in glee. 

The organist, he braced himself, 
His hair flew wildly round; 

He pulled out all the stops at once 
(It made an awful sound). 



49 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The bass and tenor had a race. 

All up and down the scale, 
The alto and soprano both 

Kept up a dismal wail. 

The final word at last was reached, 

I thought we'd have a rest; 
But if they didn't give "Amen" 

A wrestle, I'll be blessed ! 

"Amen ! amen !" the tenor said. 
Now soft, now high, now loud; 

"Amen ! amen !" the alto sang — 
And "Amen !" sang the crowd. 

The organ roared, the choir screamed, 

(It was a dreadful sight!) 
And when they struck the final note 

I rushed out in affright. 

(This and the three lays which follow it were unprovoked 
by anything that happened in the trade. The Lusty Lyre 
wrote them because he felt like it and there was no one 
to stop him. They are included in this sample selection 
chiefly to make it thicker.) 



Owed to the Office Boy 

(Five Dollars per Week) 
(1885) 

COME hither, little Jakie, 
Office boy with misfit pants, 
Come hither. Leave the nickel 
Which in matching seems so fickle; 

Come and listen to the cry the office chants. 



WITHOUT EXCUSE 

In the morning, little Jakie, 

Sweep the room. 
Do not monkey with the litter 
Which provoketh words so bitter, 

Use a broom. 

And, fair Jakie, pray remember — 

Cuspidor. 
When so often you forget 
It suggests no violet, 

Quite galore. 

And again, good youth, remember, 

Give us ink. 
And in getting up a letter, 
The pen if clean writes better — 

Don't you think? 

(Jakie, the office boy, was also the printers' devil. Long 
after the Lusty Lyre ceased to gibe at him, one of the edi- 
torial staff used to print paragraphs concerning him. Jakie 
resented this, and one day he set up a line of type expressing 
his private opinion of the facetious writer in language more 
emphatic than polite. This he inserted immediately follow- 
ing the editor's paragraph of which he was. the butt. The 
proofs had already been read and corrected and the form 
containing Jakie's very vulgar postscript went to press. 
Some copies had actually been printed when the addition was 
fortunately discovered and eliminated. Jakie's revenge, 
although it failed of the result he hoped for, procured him 
release from further ironic comment.) 



Oh Had I Known 

(1885) 

IF I had bet that time I held three kings, 
He said, I had been wiser in my time; 
My chips so soon would not have taken wings 
And I be left without a single dime, 
If I had bet that time I held three kings. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The day it was decreed that Cleveland won 
If I had only seen how it should be 

I would not mind the cost of coal per ton 
Nor patronize the friendly lunch route free, 

The day it was decreed that Cleveland won. 

Oh, had I known that wheat would surely rise 
I would not wear an overcoat so thin, 

But sport a sealskin reaching to my eyes 
And for my use have quantities of tin, 

Oh, had I known that wheat would surely rise. 

(They wore sealskin coats in 1SS5; that is, the sports did; 
they also played poker, made election bets and occasionally 
took a flyer in the wheat market.) 



D 



Hoch! Die Anarchie! 

A German-American Lay 

(1896) 

ER con man mit his dyed mustache 

Ein Anarchist ge-met. 
Der Anarchist hat langen hair 
Und much mit bier hat wet. 



Er hat ein fearful shoot-maschin — 

Infernal was its name; 
Der con man saved, "Gut heil ! Ja wohl ! 

Und what's your leetle game? 



WITHOUT EXCUSE 

"Kanst du der moosic-organ grind? 

Ve viel! Was hast du got? 
Show up, mine friend, und I will put 

Ein nickel in der schlot." 

Der Anarchist he make some words, 

Sehr gross — just like a swear; 
Und from his headt, mit both his hands, 

Ge-plucked his oily hair ! 

"Du weinerschnitzel schutzenf est ! 

Du verfluckte oldt fake ! 
Du katzenjammer-regenschirm ! 

Ich vill some moosic make!" 

Down mit der ground his strange maschin 

Der Anarchist ge-flung. 
"Ich vill some sweeter moosic sing 

Als ever yet vas sung. 

"Ein nickel in der schlot maschin? 

Aha ! er ist sehr schon. 
Be good enough to stop, my friendt, 

Und listen to its playin'." 

Der con man paused und schmole a schmile: 

It vas his very last ! 
Der Anarchist he grabbed a crank 

Und turned it qvick und fast. 

Ten tousand duyvels ! Vas is das ! 

A roar, much smoke, one yell — 
Der con man vanished from der sight 

Und didn't leave a schmell. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Der Anarchist he made a laugh, 
'Twas loud und full of glee, 

Und "Hoch ! die Anarchie !" he cried, 
Also, "Hurray for me !" 

"Ich bin der schlickest Anarchist 

Dot ever hated soap. 
Der con man und his three-card game 

Er kannicht mit me cope." 

So to der nearest bier saloon 

Der Anarchist lit out, 
Und all dot day und all dot night 

Made gay, mit song und shout. 



Love Song of the Option Dealer 

(1885) 

WHEN the bear is in the market 
And the prices going down, 
Oh, then come and meet me, darling, 
Without either sigh or frown 
(When the bear is in the market* 
And the prices going down.) 

For the margins must be covered, 
Tho' the check book waxeth thin, 

And tho' the heart oe breaking, 
You can only bear and grin; 

(For the margins must be covered, 
Tho' the checkbook waxeth thin.) 



THE GAY GAMBOLIER 

Then come and see me, darling, 

With a neatly written check, 
For I hunger for your coming, 

Tho' your little deal's a wreck; 
(Yes, come and see me, darling, 

With your neatly written check.) 

(When the Last Column Lyrics were printed millers used 
to watch the course of the wheat market much closer than 
they do now, and a large number of them were usually long 
or short on wheat, hedging not being as common as now. 
The greater number of failures in the trade, at that time, 
were due to wheat speculation.) 



The Eyeless Bull 
(1890) 

THERE was a man in our town, 
And he was wondrous wise, 
He bulled the market for a year 
And put out both his eyes. 
Now when he found his eyes were out 

You'd think he would refrain. 
Not so. He soon became a bull 
To get them back again. 



We Told You So 

(1892) 

PERHAPS it was you. 
Or perhaps it was I, 
But whoever first said it, 
Now neither deny 
That wheat was an excellent purchase 
That day we neglected to buy. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

A Bear Movement 

(1892) 

DOWN sank the market, 
Fathoms down, 
While the hungry bulls did roar, 
And the gallant fleet, 
W T hich was carrying wheat, 
Littered a bankrupt shore. 

Ah, well for the reticent bear 
That he worried the horned bull, 

And it's much he cares 

Whose scalp he wears 
When he goes to his domicile, full. 



The risible Supply 

(1892) 

THE winter wind— it rustleth 
Across the icy street. 
The family man he hustleth 
To make both ends to meet. 
Behind his can, the Red Hot man 

Outyelleth all the throng, 
While, with a cry, the newsboy fly 

Contributes to the song. 
The snow beneath the 'lectric light 

Doth sparkle like a jewel, 
And he who dropped his pile on wheat 
Doth seek to borrow fuel. 



IN THE MARKET PLACE 

Lament for the British Lion 
(1892) 

OH, Britain, what has changed thee? 
Thou wert not once so coy, 
But took the flour we sent thee, 

And paid for it, dear boy. 
We loved your shining guineas, 

They filled our hearts with glee. 
But now, alas, for many moons, 

No shekels come from thee. 
Hast learned to love s'mother? 

And hath it turned thy head? 
And hast thou grown too smart to use 

Our flour in your bread? 
Oh, Johnny Bull, come back again. 

We need thee every hour, 
For, if thou goest back on us, 

Where shall we ship our flour? 

(The larger millers of the country were far more de- 
pendent upon export trade in 1892 than they are today, and 
a much greater percentage of their output was shipped 
abroad than at present. The natural growth of the domestic 
trade has made exporting less vital to this class of millers 
than it once was.) 

Try Something Else 
(1890) 

THERE were some men in Richmond town, 
Upon a winter's day, 
Who met in solemn conclave there 
To drive a smell away; 
And much they writ and long they spoke, 

Resolving this and that, 
And blaming fierce and calling names 
And crying "Shame!" and "Seal !" 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

But still the smell refused to go. 

And, as bad odors do, 
The more it was declared non est 

The stronger still it grew. 
Indeed it was an odor bad, 

And Richmond men did well 
To labor hard and labor long- 
To drive away the smell. 
Yet still it was, and still it is, 

And still it will remain, 
As long as Richmond will not see 

That which the world sees plain. 
Oh, honest trade of Richmond, 

By holding of your nose, 
You may ignore, but scarcely kill, 

That smell the public knows. 

(Both Cincinnati, Ohio, and Richmond, Virginia, were, 
at one time, in very bad odor with millers because of un- 
scrupulous flour buyers who used various subterfuges, usually 
local inspection, to avoid paying their drafts.) 



These Are Marked 

■ (1889) 

THE fellow who buys, and says the flour 
Is 'off,' 'cause the market dropped 

Has got to go; 
Let us tell him so. 
It's time this thing was stopped. 

'And the chap who orders and cancels the same 
As soon as the price declines 
Has got to go; 
Let us tell him so. 
No matter how he whines. 



IN THE MARKET PLACE 

'The foreign buyer who always kicks 
And by arbitration steals 

Has got to go; 

Let us tell him so, 
No matter how he squeals. 

'The miller who uses another's brands 
And tries to cheat the trade 
Has got to go; 
Let us tell him so. 
He's the meanest man that's made. 

'And the ornery cuss in Kankakee 
Who brands his flour 'Minn.' 

Has got to go; 

Let us tell him so, 
And cure him of his sin. 

'And a bill of lading which guarantees 
Naught else but the shipping rate 
Has got to go; 
Let us have it so. 
Too long we've had to wait. 

'And all this trouble about delay 
On railway and steamship routes 

Has got to go; 

Let us have it so." 
Thus the western miller shouts. 



(Thirty-two years ago, cancellations and repudiation of 
contracts because of decline in price were among the miller's 
troubles as they are today. Misbranding and brand piracy 
have ceased to *be trade troubles, owing to the greater pro- 
tection afforded by the laws.) 

59 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Very Uncommercial 

(1889) 

OUR senators and congressmen 
May know a bit of law, 
Be up to snuff in politics 
And master hands at draw, 
But when they tackle commerce 

And laws affecting trade, 
Ye gods and little fishes, 

What knowledge is displayed ! 



A Glorious Heritage 

(1893) 

ET bulls and bears cavort at wil 
_j And prices take a tumble. 
Let strikers strike, 
If 30 the}^ like, 
The farmer still may grumble. 



Be prices high, or prices low, 
Thrones totter, nations stumble, 

The farmer he 

Will happy be 
If he can only grumble. 



SONGS OF SUNDRY 

Then iet all sons of toil unite, 
All grangers rich and humble, 

Forever hold 

More dear than gold 
The precious right to grumble. 



The Knight and the Captain 

(After W. S. Gilbert) 

(1885) 

OF ALL the cooper shops that grew, 
The greatest one, if I've heard true, 
Was that one run by Captain R., 
Whose name was famous near and far. 

He was adored by all his men, 
Was Captain R., and it was then 
He did what lay within him to 
Promote the comfort of his crew. 

If ever they were dull or sad 
The Captain danced to them like mad, 
Or told, to make the time pass by, 
Droll legends of his infancy. 

An easy chair had every man, 
Warm slippers and hot water can, 
Brown Windsor from the Captain's store, 
A waiter, too, to every four. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Did they with thirst in summer burn ? 

Lo! soda cool at every turn, 

And on all very sultry days 

Ice cream was handed round on trays. 

New volumes were provided free, 
And tickets to the libraree; 
The Pioneer and Tribune too 
Beguiled the leisure of the crew. 

Kind-hearted Captain R. was then 
Extremely good to all his men; 
In point of fact, the fame he made 
Beatified the cooper trade. 

One summer day, at half past four, 
A Knight of Labor sought his door. 
"Good Captain R., I grieve," said he, 
"That in some things we don't agree." 

"By any reasonable plan 

I'll make you happy if I can," 

The kindly Captain thus did speak, 

Awhile the Knight rubbed down his cheek. 

The Knight replied, "Good sir, I see 
Your men work now till half past three. 
I would request, in Labor's name, 
That you abate this crying shame. 

"I also urge that you refrain 
From making barrels should it rain ; 
Likewise, whene'er the sun shines bright, 
You knock off work, or run but light. 



SONGS OF SUNDRY 

"I also ask, and modestly 
(No doubt you'll cheerfully agree), 
At my own price your stock you'll sell, 
And thus all will be suited well." 

Good Captain R., he heard him thro', 
And, thoughtful, gave a wink or two. 
"Kind Knight of Labor, it is well 
That all your wants you freely tell. 

"I'll gladly do as I am bid 

If you'll receive my plan instead. 

This is the idea I present, 

And which, I hope, will all content: 

"My men shall take the shop, and I 
Will hasten to a nunnery; 
Then let them fix their hours of work, 
And those who can afford it, shirk. 

"All prices they can make at will, 
Sell all the stock, pay every bill; 
For suiting every gentleman, 
Co-operation is my plan." 

The Knight of Labor shook his head, 
And turning on his heel he said, 
"I grieve that here again we find 
That Capital does Labor grind." 



(During- this period, barrels were used very largely for 
flour containers and the cooperage business was of interest 
to millers. Many of the cooper shops in Minneapolis were 
co-operative. The particular shop which "Captain R." oper- 
ated, finding its barrel business a declining industry, devel- 
oped into a bag factory, the beginning of one of the large 
concerns now doing business in Minneapolis. Gilbert's hero 
was Captain Reece; the name of the Lusty Lyre's friend was 
very similar.) 

63 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Crop Destroyer 

(1889) 

THE farmer sows his crop of wheat 
And watches it with care, 
The sun and rain they shine or fall 
And nature does her share, 
While the farmer hopes to raise a crop 
And thinks his chances fair. 

Anon there comes a Man of Might 

And casts his evil eye, 
And lo ! where once was a field of grain 

Is now but a desert dry; 
For the Man of Might o'er that field has caused 

His "hot, dry winds" to sigh. 

He sends the all-pervading "midge," 

The "rust and blight" sends he, 
The "grasshopper," too, he hath ordered out 

And the "chinch-bug" dire, set free, 
And some "early frosts" and "untimely rains'* 

He will send, if the same need be. 

And he writes it so, and prints it thus, 

And wires it o'er the land, 
And the largest crop that was ever grown 

He sweeps away with his hand. 
"If we get seed wheat 'twill be well for us," 

Says the Man of Might, so grand. 

Is he a god, this mighty one, 

Who sendeth blight and drouth, 
Who killeth all the wheat which grows 

And blasteth north and south? 
Nay, nay, he is a bull on wheat 

And kills it with his mouth. 



SONGS OF THE SAD ONES 

Ode to Foggy Dew 

"Foggy Dew," the new bull feature. Rain in the 
Southwest and "Foggy Dew" Northwest made the 
strength. * * * "Foggy Dew" was rather a new 
proposition. It was reported as the sure forerunner of 
black rust. — Minneapolis Journal. 

FOGGY Dew, 
Howd'ye do! 
You're something new. 

After a drink or two 
Of "mountain dew," 
The Krop Killer Crew 
Discovered you; 

Something to snare with. 

Something to scare with, 
Fearsome, if true. 

They killed the grain 
With too much rain, 

But, when the sun shone out 
The rain, non est, 
Wheat looked its best, 

They raised another shout; 
A hullabaloo 
Of you, 
Foggy Dew. 

No one knew 
Where you grew, 
Foggy Dew; 
They found you, 
Foggy Dew, 
Howd'ye do ! 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

You were well met. 

They needed a new scare 
And so, in the wet, 

They found your lair. 
Phew! 
Foggy Dew. 



Forerun, thou Foggy Dew, 
Even as they say you must, 

Even as they say you do 
Forerun the rust. 

You'll do 

For a hoodoo, 

Foggy Dew, 

Adieu ! 



CHORUS OF KROP KILLERS 

Foggy Dew or Dewy Fog, 

Found within the darksome bog; 

Rust and ruin; rain and hail, 

All contribute to our wail. 

Blast and blight the growing crop, 
So we make the markets hop. 



(Exeunt in search of 
new calamities.) 



SONGS OF THE SAD ONES 

The Battle of the Experts 
(1905) 

"When Mr. B. W. Snow hurried to Minnesota two 
weeks ago and from Tracy announced that 'several coun- 
ties in southwest Minnesota are already almost destroyed 
with black rust' we held our peace, knowing that what 
Mr. Snow was so excited over was only leaf rust, we 
having been to Tracy." — Mr. Jones on Mr. Snow. 

"Deliberate misquotation is little different from de- 
liberate mendacity . I made no such statement. * * * 
I had found the infection which Mr. Jones now an- 
nounces in his eleventh hour wisdom. Possibly his fail- 
ure to recognize black rust * * * tvas due to the fact 
that he did not have John Inglis with him to point it 
out." — Mr. Snow on Mr. Jones. 

THERE were three valiant wheat crop sharps 
Went roaming in the field; 
And one went north and one went south 
A-knocking out the yield;' 
The third, he tarried close at home 

His pencil for to wield. 
And all these gallant gentlemen 
To kill the crop were heeled. 

The one discovered red, red rust; 

The other found the black; 
The third invented Foggy Dew 

Wherewith the crop to crack. 
And for a time the three were one, 

All hunting in a pack, 
For the gentle lamb stood waiting near 

With fleece upon his back. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

But, all upon a summer day, 

It chanced that they fell out; 
Some jealousy, professional, 

Made one the other flout, 
Or 'twas perchance trade rivalry 

That brought the thing about; 
Each expert clawed the other 

And his knowledge called in doubt. 

The fight that followed fiercely waged, 

And ink was shed in ire. 
Fierce pens attacked and pens replied 

With carnage grim and dire; 
For to destroy each other's fame 

These experts did aspire 
In language which resembled much 

The vulgar "You're a liar!" 

And still the cruel war is on; 

The end is far from sight. 
As long as ink and pens hold out, 

Each one, a man of might, 
Will prove the other wholly wrong 

While he is wholly right; 
And expert reputations fade 

Like shooting stars at night. 

How sad is discord ! Yet, perchance, 

When Peace resumes her sway, 
We may discern a blessing hid 

Behind this dire affray; 
While crop destroyers, plunged in war, 

Each other strive to slay, 
The wheat fields, left alone, may yield 

The crop for which we pray. 



SONGS OF THE SAD ONES 

The Rime of the Ancient Granger 

(With profuse apologies to the late Mr. Samuel 
Taylor Coleridge.) 

(1905) 

Aberdeen, S. D., July 31. — Many farmers are com- 
plaining bitterly of the inroads made upon their wheat, 
fields by rust 'hunters. In some fields so many samples 
have been taken that the farmers are beginning to think 
they are in more danger from loss by the investigators 
than they are from the rust itself. — Special to the Min- 
neapolis Journal. 



I 



T IS an ancient Granger 

And he stoppeth one of three; 
"By thy green beard and horny hand 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 



"The Board of Trade is open wide 
And I of wheat am short; 

The markets soar, the brokers roar; 
May'st hear them at their sport." 

He holds him with his horny hand, 
"There was a farm," quoth he. 

"Hold off ! unhand me, Granger loon 
Eftsoons his hand dropped he. 

He holds him with his vitreous eye — 
The Gambler man stood still, 

And listens like a three years' child: 
The Farmer hath his will. 



69 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Gambler man sat on a curb; 

He can not choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that Granger old 

To the list'ning Gambolier, 

"The grain was sown, the wheat was grown, 

Cheerily looked the crop ; 
The stalk was strong, the head was long 

And plump and full the top. 

"I looked upon my waving grain, 

My heart leap'd up with joy. 
I said, 'This year your way is clear; 

You'll make a stake, my boy !' 

"Better and stronger grew the wheat ; 

Better and more and more — " 
The Gambler man to swear began 

For he heard the wheat pit roar. 

The Gambler man to swear began, 
Yet he can not choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that Granger old 
To the list'ning Gambolier. 

"And now an Expert came, and he 

Was tyrannous and strong; 
He struck my wheat with an inky blight 

And proved me in the wrong. 

"Down fell my hopes, my wheat fell down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be; 
The Expert tramped down half a field 

And samples gathered free. 



SONGS OF THE SAD ONES 

"Anon, an Option Dealer came 

In search of Foggy Dew. 
He carried off a lot of wheat 

To prove his rumor true. 

"All in a hot and copper sky, 

Next day there came, at noon, 
Ten chumps from Minneapolis 

Chaunting the Black Rust rune. 

"They gathered samples, each and all 

And homeward went their way; 
With what they hooked my wheat fields looked 

Like thirty cents next day. 

"Four times fifty wheat men came 
And through my fields did roam, 

By Pullman car they flew afar — 
And carried samples home." 

"I fear thee, ancient Granger wight; 

I fear thy horny hand ! 
And thou art long and lank and brown 

And lackest not of sand ! 

"I fear thee and thy vitreous eye 
And thy skinny hand so brown — " 

"Fear not, fear not, thou Gambolier ! 
But hear me out ; sit down ! 

"Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

No wheat was left to see ! 
And never an Expert cared a cuss 

Nor left one grain for me. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

"I looked upon the ruined fields 

And drew my eyes away; 
I looked upon the railway track — 

'Twas there the lunch-route lay. 



"Since then, at an uncertain hour 

A fearful thirst returns; 
And till my ghastly tale is told 

This heart within me burns. 

"Farewell, farewell, but this I tell 

To thee, thou Gambolier ! 
He feeleth well who drinketh well 

Of whisky, wine or beer. 

"He feeleth best who drinketh most 

Or straight or eke high-ball; 
And the countryman who hath a jag 

He feeleth best of all." 

The Gambolier fetched forth the coin. 

The ancient Granger fled, 
As one who thinks of sundry drinks 

Or, wheels has in his head. 

The Granger man of vitreous eye. 
Whose beard is strangely made, 

Is gone and now the Gambolier 
Turned from the Board of Trade. 

He went like one that hath been touched 

And is of sense forlorn; 
A sadder and a wiser man 

He rose the morrow morn. 

72 



THE LOST TOBOGGAN 

The Rhyme of the Lost Toboggan 

(1887) 



Telleth how the rich 
merchant and his 
beiuteous daughter 
go forth to slide 
upon the treacherous 
toboggan. 



r 



I 

' WAS a wealthy merchant 
Who sought the icy slide, 
And with him came his daughter dear, 
That she with him might ride. 



Speaketh of a worthy 
but poor young man 
who loveth the lady 
but hath never men- 
tioned the fact to her 
father. 



II 

A comely youth was standing near 
Who long had loved this maid, 

But ne'er had voiced his sentiments- 
In sooth, he was afraid. 



Ill 
Showeth why. For crusty was the wealthy sire; 

And had he pressed his suit, 
Gadzooks ! I ween the youth had felt 
A large parental hoot. 



Explaineth the situ- 
ation in life of the 
youth aforesaid. 



IV 

'Twas in the glove department 
The young man's lot was cast, 

'Mid dry goods, laces, notions. 
His busy days were passed. 



Relateth his infatu- 
ation for the tobog- 
gan habit. 



V 
But when the shades of evening 

Fell o'er the frozen snow, 
Tobogganing with wild delight, 

It was his wont to go. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 



Reiterateth that the 
young man is 
present. 



VI 

This comely youth, I said, was nigh, 
Who loved the lady fair, 

And with him his toboggan new. 
Possessed of powers rare. 



VII 

Dwelleth on the en- And when he marked her standing there, 

nobling sentiments . , „ , L , 

which overcame him And felt her presence near, 

JteiSE^ He lon S ed t0 be the fr°st-bite keen 
Which nibbled at her ear. 



The young man 
speaketh to the rich 
merchant and the 
lovely maid ofwhort 
he is enamored. 



VIII 
He guilelessly approached the pair, 

And, bowing. low, spake he: 
"Fair lady and kind sir, I fain 

Would have ye ride with me. 



Beseeching them 
that they may give 
consent to ride with 
him. 



IX 

"Behold my fleet toboggan, which 
Outspeeds the very best; 

If you should deign to ride thereon, 
'Twould give ye added zest." 



The parent accept.eth 
the young titan's in- 
vitation, and maketh 
preparations to vide. 



X 

The graybeard, he of treachery 
Bethought not nor of guile, 

But briefly thanked the youth, and so 
Prepared to ride the while. 



Showeth the manner 
whereby the youth 
uetteth the start of 
the stern parent. 



XI 
The young mans face grew strangely grim 

(The lady sat before). 
But ere the father gained a seat, 

Away the couple tore. 



THE LOST TOBOGGAN 



Of the latter.s griet 
and unseemly rage. 



XII 
Away upon the glist'ning slide 

Like lightning sped the pair, 
The father called to them, amazed, 

Then, frenzied, tore his hair. 



Of It is vain offer to 
those who stand 
about. 



of their inability t< 
aid him. 



XIII 
"What, ho ! O'ertake them he who can, 

And bring my daughter back, 
Nor corner lots, nor bonds nor stocks, 

Nor red gold shall he lack." 

XIV 

But motionless the sliders stood, 
Nor did they move a limb; 

So swift the youth went down the slide, 
'Twere vain to follow him. 



Describeth the flight 
of the young man 
and the maid, 



XV 

Away, away upon their course 
The fleeting lovers flew; 

Downward into the black beyond 
They disappeared from view. 



And their melan- 
: h o ly disappeara n ( 
front mortal view. 



XVI 

What magic that toboggan had 
None ever knew. Alack ! 

The dry goods man, the lady fair. 
Thev never more came back. 



(Hreth a description 
of the effect upon the 
bereaved parent, 



XVII 
A bent and white-haired gentleman 

Roams near the rimy slide. 
And marks, with face o'erlined with care, 

The couples downward glide. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 



And hoiv it is his 
wont to iveep and 
sigh most sorrow- 
fully. 



XVIII 

With tearful eye he looks upon 

The people passing by, 
Then shakes his head despondently, 

And heaves a bitter sigh. 



Speaketh of the vision 
which doth haunt 
the wondering and 
awe-struck watch. 



XIX 

Policeman X has testified 
That of a wintry night, 

When all the town is fast asleep, 
He sees a gruesome sight. 



And giveth his opin- 
ion regarding the 
same. 



XX 

A couple all in snowy white 
Go down the slide like mad. 

He says it is the lovers' ghosts 
A-fleeing from their dad. 



Narrated hoiv the 
memory of the ill- 
fated youth is cher- 
ished in his former 
haunts, 



XXI 

Still in the glove department, 
Still in the notions too, 

Yea, even at the cashier's desk. 
They tell this tale o'er — true 



And detaileth the 
manner in which the 
recital of this tale 
is therein received. 



XXII 

As showing how a dry goods man 
When crossed in love can die. 

The lady clerks exclaim, "Just think !' 
The gents remark, "My eye !" 



(Originally written to be read at a meeting of a toboggan 
club, this was subsequently published in Harper's Weekly, 
accompanied by illustrations. At the time tobogganing was 
a new and fashionable winter sport in America.) 



HERBERT BRADLEY 

Herbert Bradley 
(1906) 

I WONDER to what land tonight, 
What strange, far land you take your flight; 
O'er what vague sea, uncharted and unknown, 
O dauntless traveller, outward bound, alone, 
You fare you forth. The chill November sky 
Is storm beset and autumn winds are high. 
Dark is the way. There shines no friendly star 
To mark the course o'er reef or harbor bar; 
Yet you embarked as you were used to do 
Upon your journeys o'er the ways you knew, 
Nor can I think that your brave, honest soul 
Feared the unseen more than the well-known goal. 
Having the thing to do, it was your wont 
Straightway to do it. Journeys did not daunt 
Nor storms prevent, nor fear of wreck dismay; 
Full confident, you went upon your way. 
Ready you always were, and ready when 
The order came to voyage beyond your ken; 
Stout was your heart and hope was still the guide, 
When, unafraid, you steered forth with the tide. 
And it must be that to some fairer land, 
Where skies are sunny and the deathless stand, 
You have gone forth and there safe harbor won 
In the bright Port of Souls, your journeys done. 
For there must be for those, like you, who strive, 
In ceaseless effort that the right may thrive, 
Some safe retreat, some home among the blest, 
Where those who labored long may find their rest. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 



w 



The Revised Barbara Frietchie 

(1886) 

HEN over the mountains, riding clown. 
Horse and foot into Frederick Town. 



The "rebs" marched over the mountain wall 
With their usual clatter and usual gall. 

Barbara Frietchie bedridden lay 

And knew no odds 'twixt blue and gray, 

Whittier says not, but he don't know — 
(At least, so the Century war papers show.) 

Though forty flags with their silver stars 
And forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped all morning, and then came down, 
When the hungry rebels came to town — 

Barbara Frietchie didn't mind, 
She couldn't see 'em — being blind. 

When up the street came the gray-clad boys, 
She probably muttered: "Oh, drat their noise!'' 

And to Stonewall Jackson, riding ahead, 
Never a syllable Barbara said. 

She didn't lean out of her window-sill 
To shake the flag with a royal will. 

No! Barbara Frietchie, so they say, 
Stayed in bed on that autumn day. 

The "shade of sadness and blush of shame"' 
Which the poet alludes to, never came. 



THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS 

Therefore the salt)* but well-meant tear 

Will please cease falling on Stonewall's bier — 

"lis twenty odd years since the fight was o'er, 
And the rebel rides on his raids no more, 

But heroes in blue and the same in gray 
Love to tell of that awful day — 

When, hearing the conquering rebel tread. 
Barbara Frietchie stayed in bed, 

And valorous generals love to stalk 
Through well-paid pages of gory talk. 

Blood-red ink and fierce steel pen, 

In the Century meet and fight again — 

Flag of freedom and union, wave 

O'er the land of the true but inky brave ! 

(The foregoing was printed in Puck and at the time it 
Tvas written the Century magazine was publishing a series 
of articles about the Civil War contributed by various dis- 
tinguished participants in it. One of these denied that there 
was any basis in fact for Whittier's famous poem, claiming 
that Barbara Frietchie, at the time the incident was supposed 
to have occurred, was both blind and bedridden.) 



H 



The Cannibal Islands 

(1886) 

OW happy must the people be 

Amid these islands blest, 
Where strikers cease from troubling 
And switchmen are at rest. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

No Powderlys infest these isles, 

No Martin Irons jaw, 
No Knights of Labor proclamate, 

No riots break the law. 

Among these cheerful islanders 

A man is but a man, 
And be he either poor or rich 

They serve him if they can. 

Sometimes they serve him raw, again 

They do him up on toast; 
Braised, buttered, stewed; anon, perchance, 

They serve him as a roast. 

(Thirty-five years ago the relations between capital and 
labor were no more harmonious than they are today, in fact 
they were very much less so. Terence V. Powderly was 
chief of the Knights of Labor, the national labor organiza- 
tion, and Martin Irons was a well-known agitator. This 
rhyme appeared in Life, to which its author was an occa- 
sional contributor.) 



The Real Authority 
(1907) 

I SEE that Baron Rothschild's been a-shooting off his 
head 
About our money markets and the attytood of Ted; 
I'd like to ask ye, what's he know about affairs out West, 
A-livin' off in London out o' touch with what's the best? 
Kin he size up the President an' what he aims to do 
Like fellers such as Bowser of the Pee Wee Falls Bazoo? 
When Bowser went to Washin'ton an' stood up in the 

line 
To pay respects to Roosevelt, awaitin' fer a sign, 

80 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

The President looked out the door and then he sung out 

loud, 
"If there ain't Bowser! Send him in!" before the whole 

blamed crowd ! 
An' took an' fetched him by the arm, an' led him 

through the door, 
And confidential talked with him for half an hour or 

more. 
Now Bowser knows the President an' what his speeches 

mean 
A dern sight better'n Rothschild or any man he's seen, 
An' if you read his writin' in the Pee Wee Falls Bazoo 
You'll find there's mighty little ground fer all this fuss 

an' stew. 
Why, dern these London bankers and all the Wall Street 

lot, 
A r talkin' of depression an' all that kind o' rot, 
They make me mighty tired 'til I turn to my Bazoo 
An' get the other side o' things, an' then I ain't so blue. 
Why, ain't the crops enormous and ain't the prices high? 
An' ain't the country boomin' in our vicinity? 
The big starch works, they ain't shut down, the mill 

it's runnin' still, 
They're buildin' seven new houses out yonder on the hill. 
I see no call to worry if stocks and bonds are down 
As long as signs are all so good in our partickler town. 
Ye want to keep yer courage up an' take the proper 

view, 
So pin yer faith to Teddy an' the Pee Wee Falls Bazoo. 

(The London Daily News interviewed Lord Rothschild 
concerning the financial depression prevailing in 1907. The 
celebrated banker said that President Roosevelt's speeches 
against the 'American railways were greatly disturbing the 
money markets, whereupon Uncle Silas Mossback, prominent 
citizen of Pee Wee Falls, being interviewed on the financial 
outlook, gave his opinion, as above.) 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Fishin' Season 
(1911) 

THE Old Man sat in his swivel chair, 
His forehead puckered and vexed with care. 

He has 'phoned to every man on the staff. 
And now he groans, with a scornful laugh: — 

"May the devil hook 'em ! That's my wish ; 
Every blamed ijjiot's gone after fish! 

"Why do the presses idle wait? 
That ass of a foreman's soaking bait. 

"Why are the linotypes so quiet? 
The operators thought they'd try it. 

"Why is there naught on the copy-hook? 
The editor's casting his line in a brook. 

"Why can't the artist that drawing make? 
He sleeps in a boat on Cedar Lake. 

"Is there any one 'round a bill to pay? 
No, the cashier's off on a holiday. 

"Where the deuce is that office boy? 
Gone with a fishpole — wish him joy! 

"Every man-jack o' 'em, so help me, Bob! 
For love of fishin' has jumped his job. 

"June is here and the anglers dream 
Of glorious sport in lake or stream, 

"Editors, proofreaders, pressmen, all, 
Typesetters, office men, heed her call. 

S2 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

"Big or little; high or low, 
Every fool must a-fishin' go. 

"Bait in a jug, or worms in a can, 
Frogs and flies for the fisherman ! 

"It makes me tired," the Old Man said, 
As he rubbed the top of his shiny head. 

"Never a one of the whole blamed pack 
Ever brings a real fish back. 

"Sit in the sun, a-soaking bait; 
Dangle a line and watch and wait, 

"Or stand in the rain, get drenching wet, 
It's all the same — no fish they get. 

"Watch 'em come home with their poles and truck- 
Same old story : 'Fisherman's luck !' " 

The Old Man sat in his swivel chair 

And the words he muttered were rich and rare. 

"Business has gone to the dogs," said he, 
"Things are not like they used to be." 

He shut his desk with a noisy slam 

And muttered a word that rhymes with ham. 



Some one to see him, next day, was wishing — 
"Where's the Old Man?" "He's gone a-fishing!' 

83 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Prayer of the Simple 
(1909) 

FROM the psycho what-you-call-'ems 
And the culture cranks who write; 
From all fad-fools, and the faddist 

Who preys by day and night; 
From the legion cracked on "science," 

Of a thousand silly names, 
Who sell new ways of playing 

The ancient, world-old games; 
The tin-horn "chest expander," 

And the hordes who near-food make, 
From the pan-faced "health instructor," 

And the "vital power" fake, 
From those who teach the lesson, 

By a correspondence school, 
That there's nothing sooner parted 

Than the dollar and the fool; 
From all, all, short-haired women 

And from all, all, long-haired men 
That bellow from the platform 

Or drive an "uplift" pen. 
Thy mercy on Thy people ! 

Lord deliver us, Amen. 

The Trust Buster 
(1910) 

WHEN he isn't busting trusts, 
The Trust Buster loves to fuss 
With the questions that agitate and vex us; 
He is glad to lend a hand 
To save our threatened land 
And solve the mighty problems that perplex us; 

S4 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

With his fist above his head 

And an eye that flashes fire 
With an earnestness convincing 

And a laudable desire, 
He will talk on any topic 

You may ask him to discuss, 
But, when all is said and over — 

There remains the same old muss. 
The platitude don't solve it, 

While the obvious is plain: 
There has been a lot of talking 

But one fails to see the gain. 
The Buster busts the truster 

With the fearful, awful thought: 
"I've been filled with words and phrases 

And I've listened, as I ought, 
But I'm blowed if I'm the wiser 

For the language I've been fed. 
There remains the same old problem 

Tho' there's nothing left unsaid." 



The Index Expurgatorius 
(1913) 

WE HAVE a little list of them, 
The words that we abhor, 
The special line of language 
We've so often heard before; 
The stilted, trite and vulgar, 

The weak attempts at style, 
The Bellman knows a lot of them. 
And keeps his list on file. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

There's "food for thought," a hoary wreck, 

And "safe and sane" as well, 
And "ultimate analysis," 

Which "in our midst" doth dwell; 
"Along these lines" provokes his wrath, 

And "viewpoint" drives him mad, 
While those who "make for righteousness" 

Send good folks to the bad. 

"He's severed his connection," meaning 

Johnny's lost his place, 
With "simple life" and "strenuous" 

Provoke a wry grimace; 
The "flutter in the dovecotes" 

Makes The Bellman tear his hair, 
While "slated for" and "being groomed" 

Are more than he can bear. 

There's "cultural" and "gripping," 

"Red-blooded" and "galore," 
With "fictionist" and "artistry" 

And half a hundred more; 
"Uplift" and "sleuth" and "plutocrat" 

And "multimillionaire," 
- With all the silly string of words 

Like "makes for" and "bids fair." 

Fine-writing fills his soul with gloom. 

Hysterics please him not, 
Nor lad)' -like attempts to swear 

By use of dash or dot; 
In short, The Bellman interdicts 

The feeble and the trite, 
All Grub-street's worn-out stock in trade, — 

Take notice, ye who write! 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

Corinna's Going a-Sleighing 

(What Robert Herrick, Esq., might have written had 
he Jived in North Dakota.) 

(1907) 

GET up, get up for shame, the snowy morne 
Hath on her wings a fleecy mantle borne. 
See how Aurora throws her faire 
Ice-crystalled colours through the aire ! 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The frost bespangling herbe and tree. 
But, ere you leave the snug, steam-heated nest, 
Be very sure that you are warmly drest. 
Nay! not so much as out of bed? 
When all the maids the fires have fed 
And warmed their frozen hands; 'tis sin, 
Nay, profanation, to keep in. 
Then while time serves, and still the snow is staying 
Come, my Corinna, come, let's goe a-sleighing. 



The Spot-Light 
(1907) 

KEEP away from the Spot-Light, 
It only brightens to burn; 
The fool who chases the will-o'-the-wisp 
Its mocking end will learn. 

'Ware of the sudden fortune, 

'Ware of the unknown pool; 
Sail in the waters you've sounded before ; 

Be warned by the cruise of the fool. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Stand by the time-tried methods, 

Steer by the old, safe light; 
Sheer off from the ways where the beacons blaze 

That only beckon to blight. 

Whether you work with your think-tank, 

Or labor with pick or spade; 
Artist or artisan, rich or poor, 

Stick to the game you've played. 



Lays of a Lucertola 

(1909) 

I 

A Sorrento 

I HAVE found a place for the tired mind, 
For the vexed and fretted soul; 
It lies where the steep steps upward wind 

From the shores where the blue seas roll, 
Where, far above, on the terraced hills, 

The grapes and the orange trees grow, 
And the murmuring voice of the mountain rills 

Answers the waves below. 
All day long through the narrow ways, 

Stone-paved, mid their moss-grown walls, 
The click of the wooden sandal plays 

A tune to the children's calls. 
Faint and far, from the cloistered peak 

Comes the chime of a soft-toned bell, 
And ever the echoing valleys speak 

Their benison — "All is well !" 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

When the sunset falls o'er the azure bay 

In the wave-washed solemn deep, 
You may see the Castles of Yesterday 

Cast down in a dreamless sleep. 
So perish, o'erwhelmed in a peaceful tide, 

The thoughts that the soul would tire, 
And under the sea of forgetfulness hide 

The House of the Vexed Desire. 



II 
Sonne z S. V. P. 

1 for the Waiter, 

2 for the Maid, 

3 for Facchino, a king at his trade, 

4 for the Porter, who wears the cross keys, 

5 for his helper, who struggles to please, 

6 for the Insect, who lives in the lift, 

7 for a nondescript, on the night shift, 

8 for the Laundress, who comes when you call, 
And tips for two dozen lined up in the hall. 



Ill 
Poor Papa 

(A Tragedy of Travel) 

GO, mark him on the corso, 
Where the cabbies seethe and roar. 
As patiently he waits without 
The portals of the store, 
Where his wife has bought some rubbish 
And his girls are buying more — 

Poor Papa ! 
("That stuff won't be no use in Chicago, Mama.") 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

His eyes are sad and weary, 

And his figure's on the stoop, 
He is feeling lost and dreary, 

And his mouth is on the droop. 
For the scenes and sights around him 
He is caring not a whoop — 

Poor Papa ! 
("There ain't a blame thing in this town but scenery.") 

He cannot speak the language, 
And he doesn't want to try, 
He is sick of foreign travel, 

And he's hungry — worse, he's dry. 
While the thought of club and country 
Brings the moisture to his eye- 
Poor Papa ! 
("When I get home and get a good beefsteak — ") 

They snake him through cold churches, 

Where lumbago lies in wait, 
They drag him through old ruins 
With a laggard, footsore gait; 
They begin it in the morning 
And they keep it up till late — 

Poor Papa ! 
("When I've seen one. I seen a million!") 

How he loathes the food they feed him, 

How he hates the guide-book red, 
How he dreads the morrow's waking, 

As he shivers in his bed; 
If he sleeps to dream of comfort, 
He awakes to find it fled — ■ 

Poor Papa ! 
("Well, courier, we've got half an hour, what do ice do?") 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

He has forded rushing rivers, 

He has climbed the stony hills, 
He has watched the sunset's glory, 

Dumbly missing all the thrills, 
And, when all is done and over, 
Who digs up to pay the bills? 

Poor Papa ! 
Poor, dear, 
Nice Papa! 
He may grumble, still he always pays the bills. 

"Well, sir, this is where they part you from your 
money, ain't it?" 

"What are these here things all about, anyhow?" 

"This tarantoola ain't what it's cracked up to be, why 
don't they have some fancy dances?" 

"Well, sir, there's places in New York I never seen." 

"What in thunder is oofs? Eggs? And two francs 
extra for just eggs! Well, I'm dumed! Now in Pelican 
Rapids you can git — " 

"Round steak and bread and butter, that's what I 
said, waiter, and that's what I want — " 

"Forgot to tip the maid, eh, what? Lord, I've tipped 
everything in sight — " 

"When we git home again I won't complain of 
nothing" 



Exeunt: Poor Papa in a cloud of dust, amid rattle of 
wheels and cracking of whip, holding handbags, wraps, 
umbrellas, canes, guide-books, camera, and express 
checks; Mama striving to appear serene and dignified 
and the girls with the indomitable light of travellers 
triumphant in their eager eyes. 

Remain: hotel manager, head waiter, table waiter, 
room waiter, porter, assistant porter, boots and hall 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

boys, looking more or less resigned to guests' departure 
Thin group of interested spectators, consisting of peas- 
ants, carabiniere, children bearing wilted and dusty 
nosegays, postal-card vendor and a licensed mendicant, 
who possesses the unique distinction of being the only 
man on earth who could have fully profited by the terms 
of a modern accident insurance policy (if he had held 
one when his cataclysm overtook him) being blind in 
the right eye, bereft of both legs and shorn of his left 
arm. 

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of guitar in the distance, accom- 
panying remains of tenor voice, somewhat the worse for 
exposure to night air and possibly vinous over-indul- 
gence, warbling plaintively " : o Sole mio!" 

Sunset falls o'er castle walls, etc., precisely as it did 
before Poor Papa arrived on the scene. 
Curtain. 



The Wise Sluggard 
(1907) 

V I "l WAS the voice of the Sluggard, 
They heard him explain: 
"You have waked me too soon, 

I Mali slumber again." 
Like a sensible person, 

He turned on his bed, 
And the world and its worries 

Away from him fled. 
Oh, honor St. Baldwin, 

Who knew a good thing, 
And declined to respond 

To the rising bell's ring. 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

St. Valentine's 
(1907) 



WHAT is a poor fellow to do 
In a town that's so barren of taste 
That its Valentine makers 
Are all arrant fakers; 

Whose diamonds of thought are mere paste 
Whose art is sheer rubbish and waste? 



If he seeks in the shops a design 
Of a cupid not grossly precocious, 

He is vastly annoyed 

To be shown celluloid 

Arranged in a manner atrocious, 
With hand-painted verses ferocious 



I have trudged up the Pass Nickoloot 
Seeking something to give to My Fair, 

But the objects displayed 

My courage dismayed; 

They were nightmares intended to scare 
Concoctions to make a man swear!! 



So 1 give up the hopeless pursuit 

And send My Dear flowers instead. 
To avoid something worse 
Must we make our own verse? 

Please tell us, thou Bellman in red, 
Are St. Valentine's poets all dead? 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Not Guilty! 

"Wood pulp literature, I call it. ■ * * * There are 
ten times as many magazines as there were thirty or 
forty years ago. Seriously, I think that the next man 
who starts a new one ought to be sent to jail." 

— Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

(1907) 

REVERED and honored Stedman, banker-poet, 
There are too many of them and they know it, 
But forty years ago, as you'll concede, 
There were not near so many who could read, 
And, further, then the world was not so wise, 
For few there were who cared to advertise. 
"Wood-pulp" it is and second grade at that, 
Yet modern scribblers need not pass the hat. 
Sure, something's gained if literary fellers 
No longer feed on crusts or live in cellars. 
Spare the poor publisher! Send him not to jail, 
Lest wood-pulp authors of their wages fail; 
But, if you must, then save the young and tender. 
We, who are new, say : Jug the Old Offender ! 



The Infant Terror 

(1907) 

WHEN Little Willie drives the car 
How proud Mamma and Auntie are! 
But, as the sight he contemplates, 
The Undertaker smiles — and waits. 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 



i 



Campaign Portraiture 

(1906) 

KNEW a man, a worthy soul, 

Of countenance benign, 
And when he smiled, I could but wish 
The face he wore was mine. 



So full it shone with kind intent, 

So winning 'twas and true, 
I always thought his pleasant mug 

Was quite the best I knew. 

One evil day it so befell, 

This man of face so rare 
Became a struggling candidate 

And voters sought to snare. 

And worse — he advertised his face, 

Like Douglas of the Shoe, 
And paid a certain rate the inch 

For putting it on view. 

And all his friends beheld and wept 
To see him thus portrayed, 

For the cut they saw above his name 
Would make strong men afraid. 

It took away his kindly smile 
And showed a sneer instead; 

His jaw the pugilist declared, 
Likewise the bullet head. 

And there was meanness in the mouth, 

And malice in the eye; 
The forehead marked the narrow mind 

The nose stuck out awry. 



95 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Each, one and all, and others too, 

Beholding this display, 
Could not but cast his name aside 

Upon election day. 

The other fellow got the votes, 
The good man lost the race, 

Beyond a doubt what knocked him out 
Was his awful wood-cut face. 



Death of the Shah 
(1907) 

THE Shah is dead; 
Not Six-toed Shaw 
Of Denison, in Iowa, — 
The other man 
Who ruled the roost in Teheran. 

' Death came a-knocking: 
The list'ning world inclined its ear 
To hearken to the Grand Vizier, 
Who, in a voice with woe opprest, 
Declared the Shah to be non est; 

Oh Pshaw ! how shahking. 
Muzaffar-ed-Din 
Lies dead, his bed in; 
Rules over Persia 
Mohammed Ali Mirza. 
Well, whether in Kalamazoo or Teheran, 
Oshkosh or Medicine Hat, life is but a span, 
And the late King Muzaffar little recks 
How great his lot was, now he's cashed his checks. 
Allah is Allah ! Hail the living Shah, 
Whether in Persia or in Arkansaw. 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

Overworked 
(1907) 

OH, GIVE us a rest on the great big stick, 
And an end to the endless probe; 
Of the loud brass band we're a trifle sick 
As it echoes around the globe. 
The strenuous life is wearing thin, 
And the broncho busting's flat, 
And we're just a bit weary of the rattle of tin 

And the roar of the statesman's blat. 
We've gone too fast and we've gone too far; 

And our struggles we fain would cease; 
For a while we're content to be just as we are 
With the blessings of quiet and peace. 

(President Roosevelt was so vigorous and unresting in 
his attacks upon "big business" and "malefactors of great 
wealth" during the earlier part of 1907 that, in the opinion 
of many, he precipitated the panic of that year.) 



D 



Dies Irae 

(1907) 

AY of wrath ! that day of mourning ! 
See fulfilled the awful warning, 
"Safe and sane" advices scorning! 



July Fourth, ere dawn is breaking 
Cannons thunder an awaking 
To a time of clamor-making! 

Lo ! the awful day returneth 
When the Kid all caution spurneth 
And his face with powder burneth! 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Lo ! the Lad's exploding pockets ! 

See the deadly falling rockets 

And the limbs rent from their sockets ! 

See the Youth who o'erlong lingers 
Near the crackers lose his fingers ! 
Lo ! the busy Stretcher-Bringers ! 

Day of wrath ! thy fearsome story 
Still is writ in letters gory, 
Giving Tetanus great glory ! 



Journalese 
(1907) 

"TF ANYWHERE, at home, abroad, upon this busy 
X globe, 

There is investigation, it is termed, of course, a 
'Probe.' " 
Let "Don the Ermine" totter on its old, accustomed way, 
And "Skiddoo," once a sprightly word, the writer's wit 

display ; 
Still may the candidate be "Groomed," as if he were 

a horse, 
While "Slated" for the place retains its ancient hold, 

of course, 
E'en let "Bids Fair" bloom ever in his columns, fresh 

and green, 
While "Severed his connection," for lost his job, is seen; 
But for wearing out one's patience, tho' he be a modern 

Job, 
There's nothing in "fine writin' " like the daily's use 

of "Probe." 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

A Recessional 

(After Kipling) 

(1907) 



G 



OD of the Nation, known of old, 

Supreme, all-powerful and just, 
No longer on our coins of gold 
Dare we inscribe: In Thee we trust. 

Lord God of Hosts, forsake us not; 
We have forgot, we have forgot ! 

Our Fathers did not ask in vain 

When, unashamed, they sought Thine aid; 
Now, in our day of stress and strain, 
We falter in our faith — afraid. 

God of our country, long forgot, 
Forsake us not, forsake us not ! 

We bowed before the shrine of wealth 

And, drunk with riches, went astray; 
Restore, O God, the Nation's health 
And lead it in the old, true way. 

In sorrow, shame and vain regret 
We plead that Thou wilt spare us yet. 

Forgive our wilful waste, our pride, 

Our foolish pomp and wicked lust; 
Once more be Thou the Nations guide 
That we may say, "In God we trust." 
For thoughtless act and idle word, 
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord ! 

(President Roosevelt, for some reason unknown to the 
public, eliminated from the coinage the old motto, "In God 
we trust," thereby causing considerable indignation. It was 
subsequently restored.) 

99 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Autumn Musings 
(1907) 

WEELUM Jennings Bryan, 
The corn is in the shock, 
And the Autumn crow is calling 
To his brothers on the block; 
But where is little " Willie 

With his hand against the pain? 
For his chance to run for President 
May never come again. 

O Weelum Jennings Bryan, 

They heard you in the South; 
North, East and West have heard you make 

Strange noises with your mouth; 
And they have seen your winning smile, 

But ah! 'Tis all in vain! 
Your chance to run for President 

May never come again. 

O Weelum Jennings Bryan, 

They call you from the East, 
And from the South they call you, 

And from the West the least; 
But all the calling voices 

Unite in one refrain — 
The hope that little Willie 

Will never run again. 

O Weelum Jennings Bryan, 

They have husked the fragrant hay, 

They have shaved the bearded barley 
And the oats are tucked away, 

100 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

But Glad-Eyed Little Willie 

They will leave out in the rain, 
And his chance to run for President 

May never come again. 

(Mr. Bryan's "chance to run for President" did come 
again, however. He was nominated by the Democratic party 
in 190S and defeated at the election.) 



Lochinvar 
(1908) 

BLATHERSKITE Bill has come out of the West, 
Through all Oklahoma his steed was the best, 
' And, save his good Jawbone, he weapons had none, 
But his nerve was enough for the job to be done. 
So slick with his tongue and so deft with his quill, 
Sure, never was knight like old Blatherskite Bill. 
So boldly he entered Democracy's hall, 
'Mong statesmen, and henchmen, and bosses and all, 
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reached the hall door where his donkey stood 

near; 
So light on the beast the old lady he swung, 
So quick to the saddle behind her he sprung ! 
"She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush and hill ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth Blatherskite 

Bill. 
There are curses, not loud, but exceedingly deep, 
Old knives are resharpened revenges to reap, 
And when, next November, it's time for the kill, 
O, they won't do a thing to old Blatherskite Bill ! 

(In the Democratic convention of 1908 Mr. Bryan over- 
came all opposition, and, seizing the nomination, carried off 
old "Aunty Democracy" by sheer force of his determination. 
The abduction did not end happily, however, as Bryan was 
overwhelmingly defeated at the elections in the Fall. ) 

101 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Poor Magnate 
(1907) 

I WOULD not be a Railway Man 
In this degenerate day, 
When the pass has been abolished 
And the editor must pay; 
When every ink-pot in the land 

Is working over-time 
To prove all railway presidents 
Are steeped in fraud and crime. 

I would not be a Railway Man 

In this exacting age, 
When the Unions are demanding 

Less hours and higher wage; 
When every shipper on the line 

Would put behind the bars 
That luckless wight, the Railway Man, 

Because there are no cars. 

I would not be a Railway Man 

In this disturbing time, 
When every hayseed statesman 

Attempts his neck to climb; 
With laws to cut down earnings, 

And laws to tax them more, 
With endless complications 

And persecutions sore. 

I would not be a Railway Man 

At this destructive date, 
A target for the journals, 

A football for the State. 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

I'd let them take the railways 
And run them as they'd like; 

I would not be a Railway Man, 
I'd quit my job and strike. 



The Black Hand 

And Some Other Undesirable Importations 

(1907) 

DRIVE them forth from the country, 
The hordes that pollute its name; 
Turn them back to their ancient lairs, 

There let them revel in shame. 
Ignorant, filthy and brutal, 

Spawn of the Worst on Earth, 
Why should we take these ravening beasts 

From the lands that gave them birth? 
Liberty? theirs means license, 

The warrant to burn and kill; 
You may not uplift the world's accurst, 

Nor bend their ways to your will; 
Murder will follow their footsteps; 

Theirs be the nameless deeds; 
Why should we gather the hangman's fruit 

That grows on the old-world weeds? 
Skilled with the torch and dagger 

Hither by millions they come — 
Finns and Armenians, Italians and Poles, 

The nations are sending their scum. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Open the gates to the peoples, 

The honest, the humble, the wise; 
Bid them come in and find welcome, 

Give to the worthy the prize; 
Share with them freely our birthright; 

Here let them grow as we grow; 
Grant them the rights we have conquered, 

Teach them the lessons we know. 
But drive out the vicious who seek here 

License to riot and kill; 
Bar fast the gates on the outcasts, 

Turn back the swine to their swill 



Song of the Vultures 

"The Thaw murder is an ordinary police court 
affair:' — Jerome. 

(190T) 

FORCE it down the public maw, 
The nasty trial of Harry Thaw. 
Fill the columns ! Give details ; 
Tell the gossip of the jails; 
Hire a man who missed the noose 
To discuss the law's abuse; 
Print the story once again, 
Then repeat the old refrain. 
Interview the broken mother. 
Show a picture of the brother; 
Drag before the public gaze 
All entangled in the maze; 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

With the brazen head-line strike 
Innocence and guilt alike. 
Print and spare not ! Make a spread ! 
Blast the living, blight the dead. 
Tear and rend, and stuff and fatten 
On the victims gorge and batten. 
Glorious work ! Spread wide the news ! 
Hither hasten carrion crews. 

(The trial of Thaw was of such a sensational nature that 
the American newspapers fairly nauseated their readers hy 
their reports of it.) 



The Battle of Kingston 
(1907) 

I 

THE Yankee ships came sailing 
To Kingston, stricken and sore, 
And the Admiral saw blue ruin 
And hustled his tars ashore. 
He didn't wait to be bidden, 

He answered humanity's call; 
He made no note of the flag afloat 

From the peak of the Governor's wall. 
His sailors worked like beavers 

Helping to guard and save, 
Moving the sick and the wounded, 
Giving the dead a grave. 

II 
Roared the Governor of Jamaica, 

Sir Aleck Swettenham 
(By nature rather testy 
And inclined to actions chesty), 

To the tars of Uncle Sam: 



105 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

"Take your ships away and leave us ! 
Your intrusion here is grievous, 
Unwarranted, mischievous. 

I'm astounded ! so I am. 
Without an invitation 
You invade the British Nation. 
You forget I rule this Station. 

I'm a Lion, not a Lamb ! 
How dare you show compassion 
For my people in this fashion? 
We don't want your proffered ration, 

So begone !" cried Swettenham. 
The Yankee tars, unfretted, 
Apologized — regretted — ■ 
"Hoped the G.uvner would ferget it," 

Would the doughty Swettenham. 
Then they went away quite sweetly, 
Brushed their jackets very neatly 
And controlled their tongues completely, 

Just as meek as Mary's lamb. 

Ill ' 
The Yankee ships went sailing 

From Kingston, stricken and sore, 
And the Admiral stood on his Binnacle Lamp 

Or what-you-may-call-it, and swore. 
"Now blow me !" mused Admiral Davis, 

"If ever I met a clam 

'Twas this testy and chesty and rusty and crusty 

Red tape of an ass, Swettenham !" 

(After the earthquake in Jamaica in 1907, Admiral Davis, 
of the American navy, landed his sailors in Kingston to meet 
the emergency. They performed excellent service, but the 
action was resented by the British Governor of Jamaica, Sir 
Alexander Swettenham, who protested against receiving as- 
sistance from the American navy. The sailors were, of 
course, promptly withdrawn. Later the governor was re- 
called.) 

106 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

Absent 

(1907) 

SINCE you are gone, the old haunts cease to charm, 
Lacking the presence that once made them dear. 
My feet move slowly in accustomed paths 
Through yellowing leaves, disconsolate and drear, 
Since you are gone. 

Since you are gone, the house seems strangely void, 
Lacking the voice that echoed through its halls; 

I hear you call in the familiar tones, 

Start to respond — but wake to vacant walls; 
Since you are gone. 

Since you are gone, my heart more somber grows, 
Lacking the charm and fullness of your grace; 

Sighs come unbidden and the smile is forced, 
Joyless all sunshine in the empty place, 
Since you are gone. 

Since you are gone, the tedious world is vain, 
Lacking the part that gave to life its zest ; 

Blindly I stumble on, perforce I must, 

A laggard straggler, asking naught but rest. 
Since you are gone. 



Since you are gone, O heart that beat with mine 

And brought the gladness that made bright the day, 

I find no pleasure in the sodden road 

O'er ashen memories, under skies of gray. 
Since you are gone. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Dignity of Death 
(1908) 

GOOD painter, paint me my portrait 
To send to a friend of old; 
A friend who knew and loved me 

Ere the blood grew pale and cold ; 
A friend, almost a brother, 

In the days when life was young; 
Who has lived apart in another land 

Attuned to a stranger tongue. 
He would not know the portrait 

If 'twere like my face today, 
So, prithee, good Sir Painter, 

Turn into gold the gray; 
Smooth from the furrowed forehead 

The deep-etched lines of care; 
Put in the eyes that are faded now 

The light that they used to wear; 
Brush out the sorrow and sinning, 

Paint in the faith that has fled, 
Round out the cheeks that are sunken, 

Tint them again with the red. 
Smooth off the marks of the battle, 

Weariness, hopelessness, pain, 
And picture, by Art's divination, 

The face of mv bovhood again." 



Closed were the eyes in the coffin, 
Gray was the hair of the dead, 

Sunken the cheek, with the pallor 
Still taking the place of the red, 

10s 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

But the painter marveled in silence, 

As he looked on the features within, 
For gone were the sorrow and weakness, 

Gone were the traces of sin; 
Only a peaceful calm was there 

And the look that belongeth to youth. 
" 'Tis a strange commission," the painter said, 

"That Death undertook, forsooth." 



A Christmas Prayer 
(1911) 

LORD, on this Thy Christmas day, 
Grant us grace to go our way, 
And where'er its path may wend, 
Courage 'til we reach its end. 

Children all; blind, foolish, weak, 
Stumbling to'ard the goal we seek, 
Not for larger work we ask, 
But for strength to meet the task; 

Not for wealth, nor toil's surcease, 
Give us only, Lord, Thy peace. 
By our firesides, grateful hearts 
Feel the joy that love imparts; 

Know Thy blessings, made to fall, 
Through the years, upon us all, 
Here petition make to Thee 
For our friends where'er they be; 

Send them, Lord, Thy Christmas joy: 
Kindly mirth without alloy, 
Give them, Lord, from care release, 
Grant them, over all, Thy peace. 

109 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The Pathetic Ballad of Wayzata 

(In Fourteen Verses, Cantos or Staves, Done in Every 
Known Meter, Including The Gas Meter.) 

(1911) 



TIS the intent 
Hereby to represent 
An incident 
Connected with the President. 

II 

Sweetly the village slept 
Unknown to fame, 

Wayzata, dreaming by the lake- 
Few knew the name, 
Or, knowing, could pronounce the same: 

Way-zetta, zeeta, zotter, 

Wise-etta, no one sought her, 

Fair village of the water. 

HI 

Idly the wavelets lapped the beach below her, 
Rude commerce never deigned to know her. 
Above, Bald Hill stood silently on guard, 
Watching the grocer's refuse in his yard, 
Anon a flashing motor whirled the dust, 
Dashed down the road and left the town unfussed: 
Slumbrous, sun-kissed Wayzettibus ! 

IV 

Suddenly, out of the East, came a rumor 
Wonderful, marvelous; choice in its humor; 
Messengers dashed through the village 
Summoning citizens back from their tillage, 

110 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

Back from the haunt of the bullhead and crane, 
Back to Wayzata and glory again ! 

V 

Promptly they answered, these sons of her breeding, 
Valiant in pitchfork, bait-selling, grass-seeding, 
Ready to rally, do, dare at her needing, 

Quick to respond to her call; 
Leaving the boat at its mooring, 
Baitless, the tourist went touring, 
Homeward the people came pouring, 

Rallying in the Town Hall. 

VI 
Then spake the Herald, "Behold me ! 
I bring you a message, 'twas told me 
By one who has never yet sold me ! 
By his own wish and free consent 
Our ever gracious President 
Has signified his real intent 
Here to become a resident." 

VII 
Few cities ever made pretense 
To presidential residence, 
And residential presidents 
Are rightly reckoned rare events, 
Therefore Wayzata, named the Royal Town, 
Awakened from its slumber to renown, 
Forthwith began to do itself up brown. 

VIII • 
Rare was the bustling, 

the rustling, 
the hustling. 
Housekeepers wore themselves out with mere dusting, 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

The pavements were scrubbed and the windows were 

screened, 
Garbage removed and the back yards were cleaned. 
Soap went to a premium, dirt fled in affright, 
And the oil on the street put the autos to flight. 
Such a scrubbing, 

and drubbing 
and rubbing! 
No town ever saw such a tubbing. 

IX 
Now sits Wayzata, Royal Town, 

No further need to don her; 
Surprised at unaccustomed scenes 

Bald Hill looks down upon her; 
Washed, painted, cleaned and oiled she waits 

The presidential honor. 

X 

The presidential deed is made; 

The presidential plan, 
Not one but six, has been displayed 

Before the eyes of man, 
The enterprising press has shown 

Its beauties, as it can. 

XI 
The presidential guard has drilled 

In all its strength and state, 
And nightly stands its watchful ward 

Without Wayzata's gate, 
Lest coming unawares, the guest 

Should be obliged to wait. 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

XII 

Why tarries he, the President, 

For whom all this is done? 
Wayzata looks toward the East 

With every setting sun, 
And listens for the Herald's feet, 

The feet of those who run. 

XIII 

Way-zetta, zeeta, zotter, 
Wise-etta of the water, 
He cometh not but oughter. 

XIV 

Wayzata may have paid the cost, 

He may not heed her call; 
'Tis better to have scrubbed and lost 

Than not have scrubbed at all. 

(Wayzata is a pleasant little village situated on Lake 
Minnetonka. In 1911 some practical joker started the rumor 
that President Taft intended to establish a "Summer White 
House" somewhere in the West and that he favored the 
shores of Minne"tonka. This inspired the citizens of Wayzata 
to make the great effort referred to in the foregoing ballad, 
in which they were encouraged by the humorists of the 
daily press.) 

The Bellman's Message 
(1912) 

OVER the snow on Christmas day, 
The Bellman taketh his cheerful way, 
Ringing his bell with a joyous peal, 
Crying his tidings with hearty zeal: 
"Hear ! oh hear ye ! men of good-will, 
The world grows old, but the message is still 
Peace on earth from heaven on high; 
Wherefore, I pray you, let old feuds die. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Pause in your labor, forego your strife. 
Lift up your souls to a nobler life. 
Hark to the song of my golden bell: 
God is at peace with us. 
All is well." 



The Peace Pipe 
(1915) 

LET us smoke the Pipe of Peace, 
While the world goes roaring by, 
Tumult, anger, strife will cease, 
Vanish — like this smoke on high. 

Few our days, at best but brief, 
Why corrode the hours with hate? 

Why sit down with Care and Grief 
While we let good Friendship wait? 

Let us smoke, and smoking dream 

Of that happier day to come 
When this hideous crash will seem 

But the echo of a drum. 

Passing all these man-made things, 
Guns that kill and swords that maim, 

Still endures the word that rings 
Over all, to peace proclaim. 

Let us smoke the Pipe of Peace, 

While the world goes struggling by, 

Let us smoke and find release 
From its madness — you and I. 

(Written for the annual dinner of the staff of The North 
western Miller, January 15. 1915.) 



ECHOES FROM THE BELLMAN 

The Flag in Belgium 
(1915) 

WE STOOD on Belgium's tortured soil, 
War-scarred it was — blood red, 
While Hunger stalked the smitten land 
And widows mourned their dead; 
And there was nowhere sign of hope. 

And nowhere help was nigh, 
Save in that spot where flew our flag, 
The Stars and Stripes, on high. 

Beneath it, safe protected, lay 

The food by Pity sent, 
And where it waved, Compassion stood 

With succor for the spent. 
The little children blessed the flag, 

And women kissed its bars, 
And men looked up, again with hope, 

To gaze upon its stars. 

Go, trace its glories to their source 

In fights by land or sea. 
And tell of all that made this flag 

The einblem of the free, 
But nobler fight was never waged 

Nor higher honor gained 
Than when, in Belgium, hunger-swept, 

God's mercv it maintained. 



RHYMES OF A DOGGEREL BARD 

Treason 
(1918) 

HUSH a bye, baby, 
Darling, don't cry, 
Some food inspector 

May be passing by. 
Pain in its tummy 

That keeps it awake? 
Darling, don't mention 

Your peanut-oil cake ! 
For words of the Soya-bean, 

Spoke in dispraise, 
Brother was sentenced 

To serve sixty days. 
Sister's at home 

In the cooler, my pet. 
Because Feterita 

She spoke of as "Fet." 
Slandering barley 

Sent Father to jail. 
Hush a bye, baby, 

'Tis treason to wail. 

(During the latter part of the war, local food inspectors 
became so zealous in behalf of substitutes for wheat bread 
that one of them denounced complaints of barley bread as 
"treasonable.") 



INDEX 



A "Strait" Tip 












43 


Absent .... 




. 


Advantageous Location 










26 


All on the Quiet 










28 


Another Go at the American 










26 


Another St. John Man 










36 


Autumn Musings 










100 


Ballad of Mr. Brown, The 












15 


Battle of Kingston, The 












105 


Battle of the Experts, The 












67 


Bear Movement, A 












56 


Beats Morphine 












21 


Became a Canuck 












23 


Bellman's Message, The 












113 


Black Hand, The 












103 


Britannia Rules the Waves 












33 


Butted the Button 












\2 


Campaign Portraiture 












95 


Cannibal Islands, The ' 












79 


Cause and Effect 












9 


Christmas Carol, A 












11 


Christmas Carol, Another 












11 


Christmas Prayer, A 












109 


Corinna's Going a-Sleighing 












87 


Crop Destroyer, The . 












64 


Death of the Shah . 








96 


Delegate from Center Station, 


The 






45 


Dies Irae 








97 


Dignity of Death, The 




108 


Editor and the Balancing Pole, The 




34 


Epitaph, An ... 




23 


Epitaph, Another 












24 



INDEX 



Everybody Knows This Barber 

Extremely Jolly Miller, The 

Eyeless Bull, the . . . 

Fishin' Season, The 

Flag in Belgium, The 

Floury Humbugs 

Foggy Dew, Ode to 

Gathered In 

Glorious Heritage, A 

Herbert Bradley 

He Read a Paid Write-Up 

He Trimmed 'Em . 

Hoch! Die Anarchie ! . 

How He Built His Mill 

Humor Prehistoric 

It's English, You Know . 

Index Expurgatorious, The 

Infant Terror, The 

Journalese .... 

Kicked on the Substantial 

Knight and the Captain, The 

Lament for the British Lion 

Lays of a Lucertola 

Loch invar 

Love Song of the Option Dealer 

Mill of the Years 

Miller Who Knows It All, The 

Millowner Contemplates a Join 

Modern Pirate, The . 

Money No Object 

Musically Mutilated . 

No Choice 

Not Guilty ! . 

Oh Had I Known 

Our German Millers 

Overdosed 

Overheard on the Piazza 

Overworked 

Owed to the Office Boy 

Peace Pipe, The 

Poor Magnate, The 

Poor Papa 

Prayer of the Simple, The 

Real Authority, The 

Recessional, A 



nev, The 



22' 

8 

55 

82 

115 

3 

65 

4 

60 

77 

29 

12 

52 

38 

25 

19 

85 

94 

98 

22 

61 

57 

88 

101 

54 

1 

5 

21 

31 

\i 

49 

28 

94 

51 

7 

41 

34 

97 

50 

114 

102 

89 

84 

80 



INDEX 



Revised Barbara Frietchie, Tlie 








78 


Revised Mother Goose 


Rhyme of the Lost Toboggan, The . 


. 73 


Rime of the Ancient Granger, The 


69 


St. Valentine's .... 


93 


Say, Where Is McCann? 


9 


Slumber Song 




. 27 


Song of the Vultures . 








104 


Sonnez S.V.P. . . 








89 


Sorrento .... 








88 


Spot-Light, The 








87 


Stranded .... 








24 


Subtle Somnolent, The 








29 


These Are Marked 








58 


To a Mill Wheel 








10 


Too Much Flour 








2 


To Our Masters 








18 


To Pillsbury B— Or Not to B ! 








37 


Treason .... 








116 


Trust Buster, The 








84 


Truth About Ulysses, The 








34 


Try Something Else 








57 


Un Fiorentino Spirito Bizarro 








33 


Very Uncommercial 








60 


Visible Supply, The 








56 


Way It Is Done, The . 








25 


Wayzata, Ballad of 








110 


We Told You So 








55 


What Is a Bag of Flour? 








30 


Wily Old Master, The 








33 


Wise Sluggard, The 








92 



